


These Walls

by Army0fBees



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha Draco Malfoy, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Black Hermione Granger, F/M, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Omega Hermione Granger, Omega Verse, Slow Burn, Tropes, like this, omega verse is so problematic, why am i
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 08:59:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17097656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Army0fBees/pseuds/Army0fBees
Summary: Hermione has eighth year planned out: throw herself into her studies, ace her N.E.W.T.s, and figure out a way to get her parents back. There are just a few minor wrinkles: PTSD, memory charm reversal, and face-like-a-Greek-god-but-morals-looser-than-his-purse Draco Malfoy. Oh—also the fact that Hermione is the first known omega to present in half a century and accidentally triggers an ancient, morally-grey spell that leaves the wizarding world's most eligible (and ineligible) Alphas spilling blood and galleons in a fight for a relationship with Hermione that she doesn't even want. Oops?By the end of it all, Hermione Granger is filthy rich, Draco Malfoy talks about his internalized misogyny in therapy, and Lucius Malfoy hasn't changed a bit.





	1. Forbear, bold youth, all’s Heaven here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EaudeRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EaudeRose/gifts).



> So first of all, I'd like to issue a blanket apology for the concept of this story. It's terrible and pretty problematic and probably says some worrying things about my psyche if you look too closely. I don't own HP. Also, the poem being used for the chapter titles is "An Answer to Another Persuading a Lady to Marriage," by Katherine Philips—all credit goes to her. 
> 
> That being said, enjoy. I'll try to update as frequently as possible; comments/critiques/plot suggestions are welcome. 
> 
> My beta is the lovely lovely EaudeRose.<3

For a reason she couldn’t put a finger on, the crowd surrounding Hermione at Platform 9 ¾ made her palms sweat. There were parents hugging their children anxiously and friends laughing, and despite everything that had happened—despite all the people that couldn’t return—it felt _normal_.

Hermione swallowed, trying in vain to clear the lump in her throat. If there was one thing she was never good at, it was pretending. It seemed like everyone else was doing their best to put the war out of their minds, but Hermione couldn’t bear to pretend that nothing had happened. There were absences that cut into her like a knife, and for once, Hermione wasn’t thrilled to be returning to school. This cheap imitation of normalcy seemed like a slap in the face to those they had lost.

Guilt stirred in her gut, and she clenched Harry’s hand tightly in her own, glancing up at him nervously.

“Hey, it’ll be alright,” he whispered, squeezing her hand. “Think about it—a whole year to study without having to constantly keep Ron and me from dying at every turn. Isn’t it like—” he drew his hand out of hers to gesture wildly in the way he always did when he was trying to cheer her up with his antics—

“—Hermione’s wet dream?” Ron’s face was pulled into a half-grin, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Hermione snorted, rolling her eyes. “Yes, well, contrary to popular belief, my life does not revolve around ‘Gryffindor’s Golden Boys,’ but I will miss you.”

Ron waggled his eyebrows. “Are you sure your life doesn’t revolve around us? I, for one, find Rita Skeeter’s story _much_ more interesting than you studying in a library twenty-three hours a day without us, but I’ll miss you too, ‘Mione.”

Just three short weeks ago, Rita Skeeter had implied (on the front page of the Prophet no less) that Harry, Ron, and Hermione were in some sort of three-way magically-bound relationship, despite the fact that Harry was well known to be perfectly happy with Ginny. Of course Skeeter couldn’t have turned her focus on the _much_ more important issues, like the antiquated exploitative laws that governed magical creatures, but Hermione had gotten a kick out of the whole ordeal anyway; Ron had convinced Harry and Hermione (with Ginny’s express permission) to pretend to to be in a relationship in front of some of the Ministry’s more conservative officials while the trio accepted some drab award, and quite a few old knaves had gotten their knickers in a twist.

Feeling rather cheered up, Hermione smiled at Ron. There was an awkward moment when it was clear that he wasn’t going to initiate contact—although it had been over three months since they had broken up, and what they’d entertained could hardly be considered a relationship—and then, with a huff, Hermione drew him into a warm hug, letting herself relax into the soft, worn fabric of Ron’s robes. She pulled back, suddenly fighting tears, and turned quickly to Harry, clinging to him tightly.  
“Merlin, Hermione, you know we’re going to visit practically every weekend, right? You’ll never be able to get us out of your already-impossible hair.” Harry’s voice was teasing, but from the hoarse tone, Hermione could tell that he was just as affected as she. 

Voice muffled by his chest, Hermione replied, “I know, it’s just—it won’t be the same.”

Harry grasped her tighter in his arms, squeezing her to the point of pain.

“It won’t, but we’re always here for you.” He drew back a bit, holding her shoulders seriously. “I mean it. You don’t have to do this—if it gets too hard…” He trailed off, and Hermione managed a tight smile.

“I know Harry.” There was another long moment of silence.

“Right, well—I better see Ginny off.”

Hermione nodded, but she could have sworn she saw Harry wipe at his eyes surreptitiously. Hermione’s chest squeezed, and she almost rushed in for another hug, but settled on a reassuring pat on his arm, and teased, “Don’t worry, Ginny and I will take care of each other, and we’ll make sure to tell you about all of the _marvelously_ exciting adventures we have without you.” She paused for a moment, then added, “And—Harry—I love you.”

With an easy smile, Harry turned away, his black robes sweeping behind him. “Love you too, ‘Mione.”

Ginny was waiting patiently a few feet away, nibbling her thumbnail nervously (a nervous habit that both she and Hermione picked up after the war). She looked relieved when Harry approached her, and leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss him.

“Bleh,” Ron muttered. Hermione laughed, rolling her eyes at the hyperbolic expression of disgust twisting Ron’s face and contorting his freckles. They stood in silence for a few moments—silence that very delicately toed the line between comfortable and awkward—and then Ron blurted out unexpectedly, “Y’know, Hermione, I really love you.” At her rather startled expression, crimson began to splotch his cheeks. Ron had never said that to her before—oh, sure, she _knew_ he loved her without having to ask, but whenever he had told her he loved her, it had always been ‘I love you guys,’ referring to both her and Harry, and usually before or after a near-death experience. Ron’s smile was sheepish. “Not—not like that, ‘Mione—I just—y’know—you’re really important to me, and—”

Hermione cut in gently, setting a hand on his arm to stop him from incessantly scratching his head (it seemed they had all picked up nervous habits). “I know, Ron. I love you too.” There was a moment of heavy silence—decidedly not awkward, this time; almost comforting—before Hermione added, “I’ll have you know that you are my favorite ex.”

Ron laughed. “Hermione, I’m your _only_ ex,” he pointed out, and she didn’t argue with him because she could hardly count what she and Viktor had had as a _relationship_.

The train whistle blew a final warning, the sound sharp and piercing in Hermione’s ears. The loud noise set her pulse racing for a not entirely pleasant reason, and she had to swallow a few times to push away thoughts of the war and subdue her fight or flight reflexes. Lights flashed behind her closed eyes.

Though Ron was not what she would call an observant man, he caught on to her anxiety and squeezed her shoulder reassuringly.

“You’re my favorite ex, too,” he said with a smile gentler than Hermione would have thought him capable of.

Suddenly choked up, Hermione turned and boarded the train, but not before she heard him shout something that sounded suspiciously like, “Look in your pocket!”

As the train pulled out of the platform, Hermione turned to see Ron and Harry, now standing side-by-side, wave enthusiastically. She waved back until she was sure they couldn’t see her anymore—until King’s Cross was just a speck on the horizon (an old superstition of her mum’s). At the thought of her mother, still living as Monica Wilkins in Australia because Hermione Granger—Brightest Fucking Witch of Her Age—couldn’t break the memory charm, Hermione’s stomach clenched, and she dropped her hand.

This was going to be a long year.

 ________________________________________________________________________________ 

The train was cheerful, most compartments filled with chattering students. The faint aroma of chocolate already drifted through the air from the sweet carts, and Hermione’s mouth watered. There were shrieks as friends reunited, most students trading smiles generously, but the buzz of excited talking only irritated Hermione. She clenched her hands, swallowing thickly. Harry and Ron’s absence felt like a gaping hole at her side, and the thought of spending a year without their stupid jokes made her almost want to stop the train and give up on her final year of education.

She took a deep breath in, reminding herself that this was _exactly_ why she had to spend a year without her best friends. They had been through so much together, it was difficult not to grow dependent on each other—but if her childhood muggle therapist had taught her anything, it was that codependency was dangerous when left unchecked. Besides, Hermione was independent. She was a war heroine and the Brightest Witch of Her Age and she was _Hermione Fucking Granger_ —she could bloody well handle a bunch of cloak-wearing, wand-waving children, even if a good portion of them were pureblood elitists.

Right.

Hermione sighed and pushed her way into the nearest bathroom, carefully restoring her Hogwarts robes to their original size. She stripped unceremoniously and pulled on the familiar garments. Looking in the mirror was like experiencing an unsettlingly strong bout of deja vu. She almost looked identical to Before Hermione: same robes, same mass of hair, same full lips and light brown skin—but the poor mimicry couldn’t fool her. It was her eyes that were different, she decided. They were still wide and very much the same dull brown, but even in the mirror her gaze weighed heavily, as if it could strip past the layers of skin and flesh to the white bone that lay beneath.

Hermione turned on the tap-water and rinsed her face, washing off her unease, before turning her muggle clothes right side out. There was a bulge in her right pocket. Ron. With a snort, Hermione pulled out a terribly-wrapped package (Really, Hanukkah wrapping paper? The Weasley’s weren’t even Jewish!) and peeled off the paper. A note, written in Ron’s terrible penmanship, fluttered to the ground. Hermione reached down and picked it up.

_Hermione,_

_Since we’re not here to help you get into trouble, we figured we’d best give you a nudge._

_Ron and Harry_

The object itself seemed to be a bracelet from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, and Hermione vaguely remembered Ginny waving it around excitedly over the summer and describing in minute detail the unbearable pain it would evoke the victim’s genitals. Instructions were written neatly and signed by Fred and George (Hermione felt a pull in her chest at the thought of George’s dead twin), and they included a carefully-worded liability clause and a warning stating that the long-term effects of the hex were unknown, so the product should only be used on a man whose fertility posed a serious threat to society

Despite herself, Hermione smiled and slipped the bracelet on—a simple silver string that adapted to the size of her wrist. She doubted she would ever use it (she wasn’t _that_ vindictive), but it was a neat idea and she liked that it reminded her of Ron and Harry.

With one final look in the mirror, Hermione turned and strode out of the bathroom, but not before carefully pinning her Head Girl badge on the breast of her robes. Headmistress McGonagall had owled her just hours after she had announced her plans to return to Hogwarts, enclosing the badge and a brisk but not unkind note that had ensured that Hermione had known quite well that accepting the position was optional, but if she declined, a certain Minerva McGonagall would never, under any circumstances, forgive her.

Fingering the elegant ridges in the badge, Hermione felt a sense of calm settle over her.

She could do this.

Of course, that was _before_ she ran straight into Draco Malfoy in the hallway.

His chest was solid and hard, painful against her nose, and she let out an _oomf_ as they collided. She peered up to find that—irritatingly—he had grown over the summer, and the top of her head now barely reached his chin. Hermione’s mouth watered at a delectable scent that washed over her—was it coming from him? His hair was done differently—it was longer, and tousled suggestively instead of being slicked back—but the startling silver-blond was the same, and his face was still twisted into an unpleasant expression. His eyes, though—not even the sneer that settled on the rest of his face could disguise the haunted look in his eyes. How had Hermione never noticed that his eyes were such a piercing silver? It seemed odd, in hindsight, that Hermione had never paid much attention to the way that Draco Malfoy was made entirely of angles—brows, jaw, cheekbones; even the straight line of his nose (but his lips, soft and parted slightly, looked absolutely kissable). She could—

Kissable? _Kissable?_ Sweet Circe, had she just thought that Draco Malfoy ( _Draco Malfoy!_ ) had _kissable_ lips? What was wrong with her!

Flustered, she looked down, her face at eye-level with the Head Boy badge pinned neatly on the front of Malfoy’s robes. Of course he was Head Boy, a part of her thought distantly; McGonagall would want to make a point about unity, and he had always received excellent marks—but her reaction to this new revelation was rather subdued in the face of the much more important revelation of her subconscious specifically thinking that _Draco Fucking Malfoy_ had _kissable_ lips.

Fuck.

Nervously, she hazarded a glance upward, still acutely aware of the lack of space between her and Malfoy; her chin almost brushed his robes. His sneer was gone, replaced by an intense expression that Hermione couldn’t quite place. His nostrils flared; Hermione was surprised he hadn’t hexed her yet.

There was a long silence, and Hermione braced herself for any number of unpleasant insults, but then, without taking his eyes off hers, Malfoy murmured, “Careful, Granger.” The words reverberated in her head, settling heavily on her shoulders. His voice was soft, but Hermione couldn’t help the shiver of fear that slithered up her spine. She had expected a jab or cruel words, and Malfoy’s unreadable expression and intimate tone of voice threw her off kilter.

She swallowed, and Malfoy’s eyes flicked downward before he whisked away with a _whoosh_ that left Hermione trying to place his scent.

“Meet you in the last car in thirty,” he called over his shoulder, his voice once again taking on the cold quality she had come to associate with him. For a moment, she was bemused, blinking rapidly to clear her mind, before she remembered the glittering gold Head Boy badge that had adorned Malfoy’s robes. Of course. They’d have to meet to discuss their plans for the year—and, she realized with a jolt, she would be sharing a common room with him. Dazed, Hermione continued down the corridor, absently tucking her hair behind her ear only to have it spring back.

What the fuck happened to Malfoy?

More importantly, what the fuck happened to her?

Maybe she would need that bracelet after all.

________________________________________________________________________________ 

Ginny, of course, had saved a seat for her. The compartment was empty besides the slight girl, most likely because her belongings were spread out over each and every unoccupied bench in a manner that clearly warned off those looking for a seat.

“Hey, Gin,” she muttered, shoving a couple of Ginny’s jumpers unceremoniously onto the floor and sitting next to her.

Ginny smiled, dimpling, but Hermione could see that her eyes were red-rimmed.

“Is it Harry?” She asked, gently coaxing Ginny to lay her head in her lap. The familiar weight made Hermione’s nervous stomach settle, and she threaded her fingers through Ginny’s vibrant hair. It was an unspoken rule among the two of them that whoever was in the worse mood got lap privileges.

Ginny fingered the edge of Hermione’s robe, pinching her lips together. “No. Well, yeah—it was rough leaving him, but it’s more than that. This whole thing feels—I don’t know.” Ginny’s eyes had gotten that absent look that meant she was thinking about the war. “I just want everything to go back to normal.”

Stopping herself from pointing out that _normal_ to the two of them was losing their childhoods to war, Hermione ran a soothing hand down her friend’s back. She had never really understood the fuss about physical comfort before the war, but now if she went a day without Ginny or Harry or even Molly’s soothing touch, she would feel a desperate tightness in her chest.

She and Ginny had talked about this—about normalcy—before, and Hermione had thought on more than one occasion that her and Ginny’s incredible friendship was due partly to their wildly different coping mechanisms. Ginny wanted to forget, and Hermione wanted to remember. “I don’t,” she whispered, her hand stilling on Ginny’s shoulder. “I couldn’t bear it if we went on like nothing had happened.”

Her friend reached up to tangle her fingers in her own. “I know. I know Hermione, and I—I respect you for that. Sometimes I think wanting things to go back to normal is the coward’s way out.”

Hermione snorted dryly. “There are worse things than cowardice.”

Ginny’s noncommittal hum vibrated on her thigh. After a moment, she murmured, “I suppose neither of us are going to get what we want. Going back to Hogwarts—the Welcome Feast and all the people we used to know and even the goddamn _thestrals_ —it will always be too normal for you after everything and it will never be normal enough for me to return to who I was before.”

“You don’t have to be who you were before, Ginny.”

They were quiet after that. Hermione felt as content as she could be while feeling like her ribs were trying to claw their way out of her throat. No, normal would never be enough for her. Ginny was wrong—the only cowardly thing to do was to cling to violence that should have been let go long ago simply because it was all she knew. Hermione took a deep breath, imagining her ribs rearranging themselves in her chest into a shape that would not catch every drifting bit of hatred and pull it close like a shield. Ginny squeezed her hand.

The dynamic between her and Ginny was new, and it seemed to thrum like a hummingbird between their clasped fingers. They had both changed—Hermione didn’t think that they would have been such good friends if not for how the war had changed them. They were both still aggressive and headstrong, and their clashes were loud and angry, but they never fought about anything that crossed the Line, except for when they did—only one or twice or three times—and afterwards there were always moments like this—soft and vulnerable, when Hermione knew instinctively that Ginny had more goodness in one of her pale eyelashes than the world ever deserved. She and Ginny grounded each other, and if she had not seen the way Molly Weasley worried over Harry like a child or the way Teddy Lupin called every member in the Order _Papa_ because they had never given him cause to think otherwise, she would not have believed something so delicate and strong and beautiful could be born from such ugly violence.

Maybe that was why she couldn’t let go of the war.

A throat cleared itself in the doorway, and Hermione lifted her head. Couldn’t they see that she and Ginny didn’t want company?

She opened her mouth to reprimand a younger student who inevitably thought that catching Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley along was an opportunity to ingratiate themselves with war heroines, but then she froze. Malfoy stood in the doorway.

For a moment, he looked guilty, like he was invading a private moment—which he _was_ , and then the cold mask fell over his features. He had gotten better at hiding his emotions than he was in third year when Hermione had punched him.

He hovered in the doorway, leaning casually as if he had any right to be here—to be at Hogwarts—and anger twisted in her gut even though she knew all too well that finishing his education was one of the stipulations of his sentencing (she was there, after all, and had testified for him).

“Sod off, Malfoy,” she muttered halfheartedly, still clinging tightly to Ginny’s hand. “The cabin’s full.”

“I’m not looking for a seat, Granger,” he drawled lazily, dusting an imaginary fleck of dust off the sleeve of his robes.

She frowned, trying to gather her thoughts. Hermione Granger from Before would never let herself become so scattered. “Then—”

“I’m looking for you.” He let his statement hang in the air for a long moment, and Hermione was about to open her mouth to tell him _exactly_ where he could shove the new and brilliant insult he had no doubt sought her out to offer when he added, “It’s been forty-five minutes. You’re late.”

Pre-War Hermione would never have been late.

“Oh.”

“Really, Granger, if you expect me to do all the work around here—”

Stifling a growl, Hermione relocated Ginny (as gently as her temper would allow), gathered her things, and shoved past him into the hallway, holding her breath when she passed him because she could smell that delectable, unidentifiable scent rolling off him in waves.

She walked at a brisk clip to the back cabin and then, as soon as Malfoy had followed her in, slammed the door shut. He had a rather pleased look on his face, and she had to steel herself to keep from wiping it off with one of Ginny’s bat bogey hexes.

“Malfoy, you know as well as I that if anything, _I’m_ going to be the one doing all the work around here,” she snipped, pulling a piece of parchment from her beaded bag and shoving it unceremoniously into his chest. “In fact, here’s the Prefect patrol schedule that I made _just in case_ the Head Boy turned out to be an incompetent git like you.”

Malfoy ripped the paper from her hands with a murderous look. Hermione half-expected him to tear it in half just to spite her, but instead he looked up, duplicated the paper, and shoved the original back to her.

“Fine,” the blond sneered, “but don’t expect any special treatment from me just because you’re the _Golden Girl,_ Granger. You’re still an insufferable swot, even if the rest of the world thinks you’re some deity for memorizing a few Defense Against the Dark Arts books.”

Hermione’s smile was razor sharp when she replied. “Oh, I didn’t deluded myself into thinking that your last minute change of heart during the war was indicative of any capacity for human decency, _Malfoy_.”

They glared at each other for a long moment before Malfoy turned away without another word, Prefect schedule crumpled in his hand, and swept out the door. Hermione loosened her tie, inexplicably hot, and huffed in frustration. Malfoy hadn’t changed at all—except for the inches he grew and the delicious new cologne and the angles on his face that had most definitely been carved by Michelangelo himself with a very, very fine chisel—so, she supposed, he really had changed quite a bit.

Fuck.


	2. And what you do aver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lads! Here's another chapter—it's kind of plot-heavy, so bear with me; we'll get to the fun stuff later. The content in this chapter is less heavy than the last (mainly because I was in a better mood when writing it, lmao) but don't think you escaped reading about Hermione's healing process. ;) The way her PTSD interplays with her being an omega is going to be a major theme, so get ready. As always, comments/critiques/suggestions are welcome.

McGonagall inspired significantly more fear than Dumbledore ever had, if the absolute silence that fell over the Great Hall as soon as she stood was any indication. Hermione supposed that her legendary feats during the war probably inflated her reputation a bit, but she couldn’t help feeling awed when she realized that not even a single side conversation was being held, and she couldn’t help thinking that one day, she wanted to inspire that level of respect.

McGonagall’s gaze was assured, and her flinty eyes flicked from table to table. Her dress robes were a simple black affair, not nearly as ostentatious as Dumbledore’s had been, and Hermione found herself admiring the imposing figure they cut. The students looked at the Headmistress expectantly, and it was only after a long moment that she began speaking. 

“I am not Albus Dumbledore, may his soul rest in peace,” she said, her voice strong and confident and her weathered face pulled into a sad smile. If it were possible, the silence grew even heavier. Hermione looked at the old witch with interest as she continued, “and as such have no qualms doling out punishment for those who seek to to bend, break, or elude the rules. While I have nothing but respect and admiration for Professor Dumbledore’s actions as Headmaster, the events of the past few years have elucidated the necessity for stricter enforcement of our rules—rules that, I remind you, exist for a reason. In order to ensure your understanding of our rules, your Head of House has left a copy of the official guidelines list on each of your beds, and, thanks to Professor Flitwick, I believe you will find that it will be rather difficult to ignore. There will be no exceptions to the rules.” Hermione could have sworn she saw McGonagall throw a berating glance at the Gryffindor table and her last statement, and she shared a light grin with Neville. McGonagall’s now-soft voice brought Hermione’s attention back to the staff table.

“There are no words I can say to give you back the people and the years you lost to the war. We have—all of us—been affected, and I would like to take a moment of silence for those who gave the ultimate sacrifice so we could be here today.” Hermione closed her eyes, dragging in a deep breath. Ginny grabbed her hand under the table, and Hermione squeezed it tightly, knowing her friend was thinking of her lost brother. When she opened her eyes again, McGonagall wore her signature stern expression. “Do not think, however, that grief is an excuse to forgo your own well-being.” McGonagall gestured to a small, dark-skinned witch who sat a few seats down from her. “This is Elizabeth Pittymore, and she will be joining the staff as Hogwarts’ official student counselor. Ms. Pittymore is a very qualified and confidential resource should you ever find yourself or a friend in need of a kind, professional ear.” Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. She had previously been under the impression that the magical world’s knowledge of psychology was dismal, to say the least, but it appeared that Hogwarts had hired a therapist. It was a rather brilliant move. “Of course, myself and the rest of the staff are at your disposal, as well as the Prefects and upperclassmen.” McGonagall paused again, sweeping her eyes over the staff table, then pivoted subjects.

“I’m sure you have heard by now, but as last year’s seventh years were unable to complete their education, many have chosen to return to Hogwarts. This spring, we will be honored to graduate Hogwarts’ very first eighth year class.”

Thunderous applause filled the Great Hall, echoing off the tall ceilings, and Ginny nudged Hermione with an elbow. McGonagall motioned for the applause to die down, and it stopped almost immediately. “I would like to see the entirety of the eighth year class in my office after the feast. Now, it is tradition to chose Head Boy and Head Girl from the graduating class, but as many of the current eighth years were not present last year, I have chosen two very deserving students who would have held the positions last year had the circumstances allowed.” Hermione couldn’t help but shoot a glance at Malfoy from across the hall. As if he felt her eyes on him, he turned from McGonagall and raised a brow at her, lips quirking in a smirk. Torn between frowning at him and nodding in acknowledgement, she decided upon neither and turned her attention back to the staff table. McGonagall was looking at her with a proud smile. “May I present to you the 1999 Head Girl, Hermione Granger.” Hermione didn’t miss the numerous heads that swiveled her way even before McGonagall said her name, or the raucous cheers that made Hermione’s blood rush to her cheeks. With twinkling eyes, Ginny dragged her to her feet, where Hermione forced a stiff nod—face still burning—and sat back down in a rush. McGonagall held up her hand for silence, but it was some time before the applause settled.

“And the 1999 Head Boy, Draco Malfoy.” Malfoy didn’t even bother to stand, just dipped his head, that lazy, self-satisfied smirk still plastered on his face.

For a moment, it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop—then one person began to clap. Hermione wasn’t sure, but she thought it might have been Theodore Nott, who was sitting beside Malfoy. A few others at the Slytherin table joined in, but Hermione noted smugly that the rest of the table sent murderous glares Malfoy’s direction. Hermione herself began to applaud politely—to present a united front—and she elbowed Ginny until she joined in. After Malfoy’s final switch to the light, only a few students were bold enough to boo, but the noise carried. The awkward moment was saved when McGonagall raised her hands once more, face twisted in displeasure. 

“I remind you that prejudice of any kind will not be tolerated at Hogwarts,” she said sternly, and then, with a small smile and a nod at Malfoy, added, “and that it is perfectly within Mr. Malfoy’s—and Ms. Granger’s—jurisdiction as Head Boy and Girl to take points from any house.” Hermione couldn’t help the choked laugh that escaped in response to McGonagall’s not-so-subtle admonishment. So that’s what this was about. Malfoy was by far the most hated student at Hogwarts—hated by both sides of the war—and by making him Head Boy, McGonagall gave him all the protection the post entailed. Students would be much too afraid of losing points to bully him, and, although Hermione wouldn’t have been averse to having Malfoy knocked down a peg or three, she had to admit it was a brilliant move on McGonagall’s part. She shot another look at Malfoy, who was still lounging comfortable at the Slytherin table, as if he was completely oblivious to the utter hatred that his presence evoked in the majority of the Hogwarts population.

McGonagall continued. “Despite house rivalries, Hogwarts is united as one school, and I trust you to act accordingly when interacting with your peers both inside and outside of Hogwarts grounds. Now, I believe that is all for now and I, for one, would not like to be the witch who stands in the way of Hogwarts students and their feasts.”

A cheer went up as McGonagall sat down and food piled on the table centers. Hermione’s mouth watered. Not even Molly Weasley’s cooking could compare to the Hogwarts food.

Hermione helped herself to mashed potatoes as Dean Thomas, seated next to her, mumbled, “Can you believe McGonagall’s going to try to enforce a 10 P.M. curfew on students who vanquished the most powerful Dark Wizard ever seen?” Dean and Neville had been the only Gryffindor boys to return to Hogwarts after the war. 

Hermione, now serving herself blue cheese and pomegranate salad, laughed. It seemed as though Dean had grown over the summer—his shoulders had filled out nicely and his voice was now a low rumble that did funny things to her stomach. She found herself scooting closer to him subconsciously until her knee bumped his, seeking the warm, tingly feeling of Dean’s smile.

“So, Head Girl, huh?” Hermione didn’t have to look to know it was Dean that had spoken; she could practically feel the timbre of his voice through where their knees touched. Merlin, she needed to get laid. Hermione shrugged and smiled, the blood rushing to her cheeks.

“Didn’t see that one coming,” Dean observed drily, sending her one of his famous grins that he usually reserved for talking about soccer or his mum.

Hermione laughed. “Yes, well, if I’d known I would be sharing the position with Malfoy…”

Dean’s smile dropped, and his brows furrowed worriedly. “Hey—about that. You know you can talk to me if he ever gives you any trouble right? I’ve got your back if you need me to, y’know, hit him six ways to Sunday.”

His concern was sweet—if slightly misplaced (God, if Hermione had a sickle for every time someone treated her like the _weak_ one of the Golden Trio just because she had tits, she’d be richer than Malfoy). Hermione was just about to gently remind him that she had handled far worse than a self-important prat like Malfoy when Ginny butted in, eyes flicking between Hermione and Dean. “I’d say there are quite a few Dark Wizards who would attest to Hermione’s ability to protect herself, but they’re all six feet under.”

Dean had the decency to look slightly chagrined, and laughed nervously. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Hermione cut him off with a smile. “You were held hostage in Malfoy’s house with the rest of us; it’s only natural to hate him. I think we can let a little unwitting misogyny slide.”

“Next time, though,” Ginny warned with a wink, “we’ll hex you into next week before you can say ‘heteropatriarchy.’”

Hermione grinned. Those feminist theory books that she had shoved at Ginny when she was worked into a fury over her brothers this summer were paying off. 

Hermione ate the rest of her meal in relative quiet, and left the Hall in the company of Dean and Neville, although she soon lost them in the crush of bodies. Hermione grunted as a shorter witch was pushed into her, and it was only after a confused moment that she realized it was Luna.

“Alright, Luna?” She asked gently.

Luna sent her a shrewd look. “Oh, _I_ am. Are you?” 

Hermione shrugged, disconcerted. “Uh, y’know, I’m doing my best, but it’s weird to be back,” she hedged.

Luna shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.” Somehow, her words carried perfectly over the crowd.

Hermione raised a brow. “Oh?”

“You’re a public deity, Hermione,” Luna replied cryptically. “You’ve no need to entertain sacrilege.”

Hermione frowned. Was that a compliment? She wasn’t even religious (and she was pretty sure that Luna wasn’t either). Was it some sort of analogy for Hermione’s sudden fame? “I’m not quite sure what you mean by that, Luna,” she answered carefully, “but thank you, I suppose.” She always found it was best to not pretend to know what Luna was talking about—Luna had a very sharp nose for lies.

Luna’s smile was all dimples. “You wouldn’t,” she agreed easily, her soft voice almost getting lost over the other students’ chattering. “But if it gets any worse, you really should see Madame Pomfrey. She’ll give you some potions to help—and—oh!” For a moment, Luna looked startled, searching Hermione’s eyes with her own, then she relaxed into a light smile. “I _see_. Well then, it appears that the sun will be shining in private after all.”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but Luna gestured with a graceful hand that the conversation was over, and Hermione sagged in relief, because, really, what does one say to a dear (but rather lackadaisical) friend who calls you a fucking deity and makes religious analogies that really shouldn’t make you this uneasy and then proceeds to tell you to visit the infirmary?

This was turning out to be a rather strange beginning to her eighth year.

______________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

McGonagall’s office was packed with students when Hermione pushed open the door. The eighth years were sprawled comfortably on the chairs and couches, talking amongst themselves, and Hermione realized for the first time how diminished their ranks were. There were only fifteen students in total—herself, Dean, Neville, Anthony Goldstein, Padma Patil, Terry Boot, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Ernie Macmillan, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, Daphne Greengrass, Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, and Malfoy. 

Dumbledore’s portrait seemed to be having an animated conversation with Neville—herbology, Hermione assumed—and Snape’s portrait looked on with his usual disdain. Hermione smiled at him (really, the painter had to get _every_ detail correct, even his greasy hair?). Snape levelled her with one of his trademark I’m-capitalizing-on-your-childhood-trauma-to-terrify-you glares, but Hermione just jutted out her chin and widened her smile. The man was dead, after all.

When she strode into the room McGonagall’s smile was small, but genuine. “Welcome back to Hogwarts.”

The rest of the meeting flew by in a flurry of Blaise Zabini asking completely unnecessary “clarifying” questions (“So, hypothetically, if an eighth year were to be found with this very specific illegal substance in their dorm...”) and McGonagall laying out that the eighth years absolutely did _not_ get special treatment (“For Merlin’s sake, we’ve had enough rule by law to last a lifetime”), but that they _did_ all get single dorms and would be housed all together with their own, all-house eighth-year common room. McGonagall demanded that they all set up appointments with Ms. Pittymore within the first month of the term, and, while the rest of the students groaned like the emotionally unintelligent brutes they were, Hermione herself thought it was an excellent idea. Minerva McGonagall was a very formidable, very inspiring witch to make ten eighteen-year-old, war-stricken boys go to therapy.

The meeting was brisk and succinct, and any of Hermione’s lingering questions were answered before she could ask them (yes, she and Malfoy would be in the same living arrangements as the rest of the eight-years; no, it wasn’t because of their particularly volatile relationship that McGonagall had decided to alter the usual Head Boy and Head Girl dorms, now, could you please stop asking ridiculous questions, Zabini).

Hermione handed McGonagall a copy of the Prefect patrol schedule before she left, and didn’t miss the way that Malfoy’s eyes followed her as she stepped out of the Headmistress’s office and walked with Dean and Luna back to the shared common room.

The password was _unity_ , which was a sugar-coated warning if Hermione had ever seen one, and a portrait of a pair of young lovers picnicking under a tree swung aside to reveal a common room with plush, neutral-colored furniture surrounding a large fireplace, the walls decorated with the banners of all four houses. Hermione thought it was a bit much; surely the aftereffects of the war would serve to exaggerate, not solve, house tensions, but she had to admire McGonagall’s very overt message. The eighth years were to be an example of how to reconcile their differences from the war, and Hermione was sure McGonagall would have no problem generously issuing detentions to troublemakers.

Good thing she was never a troublemaker. Right?

Suddenly overcome with exhaustion and the stifling heat of the room, Hermione bid goodnight to Dean, hugging him briefly. Dean smelled nice and earthy, and Hermione clung to him for slightly longer than was strictly necessary, enjoying the feel of his coarse robes on her cheek.

Why had she never noticed him before?

Suddenly self-conscious, Hermione released him, shuffling awkwardly and murmuring and apology.

Dean smiled bemusedly down at her (he must have grown at least six inches; last time Hermione had seen him, he had been just ever so slightly taller than her), and Hermione hurried away, climbing the staircase to the girls’ dorms.

A large hallway sprawled at the end of the staircase, decorated with benches and mirrors and a sitting area at the end. Six doors lined the walls, and Hermione made her way to the door labelled _Hermione Jean Granger_ in fine gold cursive. She was at the end of the hallway; the room beside hers belonged to Padma Patil. She pushed open her door. A few bookshelves lined the walls, but Hermione suspected she’d have to employ some undetectable extension charms to fit all her books. A Gryffindor-red canopied bed, similar to that of her old dorms, occupied the middle of the room, and a dark wooden desk sat beneath a window (Hermione was pleased to note she had a lake view). A dresser and mirror were located opposite the desk, and Hermione crossed the room to open the door to her left—it was a bathroom, apparently shared with Padma, but sharing a bathroom with one person as opposed to five was a relief. 

Hermione unpacked quickly, organizing her books by subject and then author, and brushed her teeth. She had barely changed into pajamas when a wave of exhaustion overtook her and she stumbled to bed, just barely remembering to set her wand to wake her the next morning. She fell asleep on top of the covers, but she was still too warm, and the next morning she awoke feeling barely-rested with sweat sticking to her forehead.

She dreamed about Draco Malfoy and Dean Thomas. 

______________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

She was in Ancient Runes—a week and a half later—when it happened. One moment she was taking notes—listening to Professor Babbling talk about the relationship between the magical and the religious in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs—and the next she was sweating profusely and trembling so violently she thought she might have a fever.

No matter, she had thought; she would just take a Pepper-Up potion when she got back to her room and push through, like she had always done. She couldn’t afford to get sick now—not when she had five-feet worth of parchment due the next day to Professor Vector for Arithmancy, and she had to cut down her ten foot essay by four feet at the minimum.

Hermione had ignored her steadily increasing temperature and her pulse beating rapid-fire against the sensitive skin of her neck and continued to take careful notes, although she couldn’t pay enough attention to fully comprehend the words she was copying down. She rubbed her neck absentmindedly. The spot just below her ear and above her shoulder had been oddly tingly for the last few days, and she was unable to place the feeling. Maybe it was her lymph nodes—those always acted up before she contracted the flu. Yes, that was probably it—although it didn’t explain the sensitivity of the insides of her wrists.

Her attention wandered.

Malfoy was in this class—and, despite it all, he was rather good at translating Ancient Runes. It bothered her to no end, and so naturally she raised her hand at every opportunity, pushing herself to outperform him. She glanced over at him.

He was looking at her, eyebrows drawn. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately—mostly his looks were accompanied by a sneer or an insult. This time, though, he seemed to be concerned. Could he have noticed that she was sick? Nonsense—she was showing no physical symptoms. Of course he didn’t.

But he didn’t look away. The heat increased.

She could almost smell him from two desks over—sweet and heady and fresh at the same time. If she was ever able to have a civil conversation with him, she’d have to ask him what cologne he used (although it had to be worth more at least three times more than her parents’ home). Subconsciously, she leaned toward him. She realized she wasn’t taking notes anymore. She hadn’t been for some time.

God, the heat was unbearable. Was no one else warm?

Hermione dragged in a heavy breath, but her lungs felt tight and she still needed more air. Fresh air. Maybe that would help. She began to raise her hand to ask if she could use the loo, but then the pounding in her head became too much and she was sliding out of her chair—a sweaty, trembling mess—and Hermione kept her eyes open just long enough to see alarm, then concern, then understanding—and horror?—flash across Malfoy’s face—no one else seemed to notice her head dropping—then her vision went black and the heat swarmed her like honeybees, sharp and directionless and infinite.

______________________________________________________________________________________

 

She woke up to Madam Pomfrey’s kind face just inches from her own.

“Good! You’re awake, dear. Here, I imagine you’re parched.”

Hermione blinked, taking in the white infirmary curtains and the proffered glass of water. It did rather feel like a herd of armadillos had trampled sand all over her throat.

The water felt heavenly, and it was only after she drained the glass that she spoke, voice rough and croaking, seeking to dispel Pomfrey’s clearly worried frown. “I always get the flu at the start of term,” she assured, setting the empty glass down on the bedside table. “Exposure to new germs and all that.”

Pomfrey’s smile looked pained. Well, maybe it was worse than the flu. Hermione’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. Swine flu? Ebola? Please tell me that there’s a spell to fix ebola.”

Pomfrey settled delicately on the edge of the bed, reaching out to encompass one of Hermione’s hands in her own. The smooth warmth of her skin was calming, but Hermione was almost certain the motherly gesture was indicative of impending bad news. 

“Darling, I really don’t think I’m the best one to break the news, but please know that you can always talk to me.”

Cancer. It was definitely cancer—never mind that the symptoms didn’t remotely match. Her great-aunt Meredith had died from cancer. Maybe it was hereditary? Oh God, did she have to go through chemotherapy? Surely there would be a magical cure.

“Minerva?” Pomfrey’s voice cut into Hermione’s reverie, and a moment later the curtains drew back to reveal McGonagall, dressed as usual in severe black, with what she could best describe as a pitying look on her face.

This was bad. Very bad.

Suddenly, Hermione was struck with horror—what if whatever mystery illness she was diagnosed with would interfere with her studies? Surely that was why McGonagall was here—to break the news that Hermione would have to drop out of Hogwarts.

Hermione swallowed thickly, lifting her chin to meet McGonagall’s eyes.

“Miss Granger—Hermione,” she began. Shit. This was not good. McGonagall only used first names when someone was dead or dying (was it her?). “You haven’t got any illness, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Relief washed over Hermione, but then she straightened with worry. “Did something happen to my parents?” She asked breathlessly, breath coming in short gasps. She thought she had done enough—they didn’t even _remember_ her, for Godric’s sake—but the remaining rogue Death Eaters were unpredictable. “Are they okay?”

McGonagall was one of the few people who knew of her parents’ plight. Hermione hadn’t even told Molly and Arthur, unable to bear the pitying looks that they would certainly subject her to—looks that suspiciously matched the one on McGonagall’s usually-harsh face.

“Hermione, your parents are fine.” McGonagall’s voice was calm. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, slumping back against the pillows. She gave McGonagall a weak smile, and released her tight hold on Pomfrey’s hand, which she hadn’t realized she was still holding.

“Alright then,” she said quietly. “Who died?”

McGonagall sighed, clasping her hands together. “No one died, Hermione.”

“Dy _ing_?” Hermione guessed, biting her lip nervously.

“No one is even injured or ill.”

Hermione looked down at the sheets, removing her hand from Pomfrey’s. “Oh. Then…”

McGonagall settled herself primly into the visitor’s chair, robes swept elegantly beneath her. “Hermione, I imagine what I am about to say will upset you tremendously, and while I would like to spare you as much pain as possible, it’s imperative that you remain calm and listen.”

Hermione nodded once, a jerky, aborted movement. Her heart hammered in her ears.

“Have you noticed anything odd about certain students in your year?”

Hermione frowned. Should she have? Were some of the eighth-years being watched? “Uh, not really. I mean, some of them have grown a few inches, but besides that…”

McGonagall’s eyes glittered. “Mr. Thomas? Ms. Greengrass? Mr. Malfoy?”

Dean and Malfoy, yes, but… Hermione racked her brain. Daphne Greengrass did seem to have grown—she was taller now than either Harry or Ron were, and her already-attractive face had become almost unbearably beautiful. “I guess those are the ones, Headmistress, but with all due respect, what does that have to do with anything?”

“Four students in your year have presented belatedly as Alphas, in addition to Mr. Zabini, who presented the summer before sixth year. Presenting can manifest some of the symptoms that you are currently displaying.”

Hermione’s frown deepened. “Alphas? Like, uh, werewolves?”

“Circe, no,” Pomfrey cut in, patting Hermione’s arm reassuringly.

“In the wizarding world, all magic-users are divided into three biological designations: Alphas, betas, and omegas. They balance each other out, if you will.”

Hermione knew enough about pack dynamics to tell that this was _definitely_ a werewolf thing, although she didn’t say it. “So, I’m going to grew a few inches and have a sudden urge to stare down Draco Malfoy in a show of dominance?” she guessed. Honestly, that wouldn’t be so bad—she had always disliked her stature.

McGonagall shifted uncomfortably. “Well, not necessarily. You see, the majority of wizards and witches are betas—myself, Madame Pomfrey, and your friends Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley. Less than ten percent of the population presents as Alpha, and around one hundredth of the population presents as omega. Omegas are—” McGonagall pursed her lips “—special. Usually very powerful, small in stature, er… fertile. They have a unique bond with Alphas, and are held in high regard. But, the thing is, there hasn’t been a recorded omega since the first wizarding war. Researchers have been led to believe that fewer omegas are born during wartime, while the opposite is true of Alphas, most likely because omegas are vulnerable to attack due to their… coveted position.”

Alright, so there was this animalistic classification system that ruled the wizarding world and Hermione, in typical muggle-born fashion, was a bit behind the mark. But that didn’t explain— “Why didn’t we learn about this at Hogwarts?”

If it was possible, McGonagall’s expression grew even more pinched. “It is on the curriculum for the seventh years, and it’s assumed that a student’s parents will inform them if they are genetically inclined to present as Alpha, but you were… otherwise engaged during your seventh year, and…”

Ah, yes. The little matter of the Horcruxes and defeating Voldemort. Hermione nodded slowly. “So, I’m an omega then? That doesn’t seem to bad. It doesn’t change anything—right?” The question trailed up at the end uncertainly. It seemed unlikely that Hermione had never encountered the concept of these “Alphas” and “omegas” before during her extensive research about wizarding traditions. She supposed she would have to ask McGonagall later for some reference materials.

When McGonagall wouldn’t meet Hermione’s eyes, she knew she was fucked. “Hermione.” The older witch’s voice was resigned, lacking its usual bite. Hermione braced herself.

It was Madam Pomfrey that cut in. “Alphas and omegas are—well, they’re made for each other, my dear. It’s very hard for an omega to survive without a bonded Alpha, and omegas are in a… unique position to temper Alphas and offer companionship, so whenever an omega is known, there’s something of a rush to… bond.”

“I have a feeling you don’t mean trust-exercises-and-holding-hands-bonding,” Hermione remarked drily, her stomach beginning to sink.

Pomfrey paled, reaching for Hermione’s hand again. “Imeanamatingbond,” she muttered quickly.

“What Poppy means to say,” inserted McGonagall calmly, although she still wouldn’t meet Hermione’s gaze, “is that Alphas and omegas are drawn to each other, er, romantically, and because omegas are such a rare occurrence, there is often a rush to compete for the omega’s… hand.”

“So, I’m an omega, then, yeah?”

“Yes.” McGonagall’s nod was heavy.

Hermione waved her away. “Well, that won’t be a problem, as I’ve no intention to give anyone my… hand.”

“Oh, darling,” Pomfrey gushed, face pulled into a sympathetic expression.

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in the matter,” came McGonagall’s voice. She sounded strangely detached.

Hermione gaped. “Of course I have a choice in the matter—what is this, medieval France?”

McGonagall gave her a look that had Hermione snapping her jaw shut with a clack. “Omegas are so coveted that, unfortunately, they have been historically, er, forced into bonds with Alphas. A very powerful omega in the sixteen hundreds—who was herself forced into a bond, despite her love for another—traded her life to cast an ancient spell that declared that, once presented, no omega could be bonded until they formally accepted the betrothal agreement from the suitor that offered her the most monetary compensation. You must understand that, though the details are quite antiquated, this elaborate spell gave omegas at the time the unprecedented freedom of financial autonomy. Unfortunately, the enchantment remains to this day and is thoroughly inescapable.”

Head swimming, Hermione looked beseechingly at the Headmistress. “What does that mean for me?”

McGonagall’s face softened, and she reached out awkwardly to pat Hermione’s arm. “If I could get you out of the situation, I would,” she deflected.

Hermione lifted her chin defiantly. “Just tell me, Headmistress,” she said quietly. “I can handle it.” (As it would turn out, Hermione could most definitely _not_ handle it.)

The Headmistress grimaced. “The… for lack of a better word, the _bidding_ will commence on the Sunday after your presentation is filed with the Ministry, which Madam Pomfrey is obligated to do within twenty-four hours of your presentation. I’m sorry, Hermione. On Sunday, every… interested party will announce their baseline bids. You will have until the following Sunday to accept the highest betrothal offer, when the bidding will resume. This will continue weekly until you accept an offer, or until your first heat, when you will be automatically betrothed to the highest bidder.”

“This is a joke, right? Did Ron put you up to this?” Hermione’s voice was an octave too high, sounding strained even to her ears. This was cruel, even for Ron.

It was Pomfrey who answered. She held out a document—very official-looking, sealed with the Ministry sign. Hermione scanned it quickly, only catching every other word, but she caught enough. This was real. She shoved the paper back into Pomfrey’s soft, gentle hands. Hadn’t she been through enough? She had watched people she loved die—her fucking _parents_ didn’t even know who she was—she had been tortured and abused and she had given up her _childhood_ to save the bloody wizarding world that didn’t want her anyway—wasn’t that enough? 

“I’ll put off filing your presentation until last minute, but…” Pomfrey’s voice was soothing, and she reached out a hand for Hermione. 

All Hermione could manage was a faint, “No,” before her vision began to grow fuzzy again and her stomach did the flip-flop thing that was a definite warning that she was going to throw up and that inescapable heat was back, eating at her skin relentlessly. She vaguely registered Pomfrey shouting and McGonagall trying to wake her before an explosion sounded and Hermione blacked out, for the second time that day.

______________________________________________________________________________________

When Hermione woke, it was Harry and Ron’s faces that swam before her.

She frowned. “What are you doing here?”

Ron laughed, elbowing Harry. “Just like old times, eh?” His eyes were warm and filled with concern when he turned back to Hermione, and he smiled tightly. “We, er—we wanted to make sure you’re alright. McGonagall flooed us in.”

For a moment, Hermione arched a brow quizzically. Alright? Why wouldn’t she be alright?

Then it came crashing back.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Ron and Harry jumped back, startled.

“Yeah, from what Ron’s told me, that seems about the appropriate reaction,” Harry managed with a half-hearted attempt at a laugh.

“That and nearly blowing the whole infirmary to pieces,” Ron added, nudging Hermione. “Coulda used that wandless magic when we were fighting Voldy, eh?”

Hermione paled. “Did I—is Madam Pomfrey—”

Harry cut in quickly, shooting an exasperated look at Ron. “McGonagall got a shield up. The only thing that was destroyed was the bed, although the blast was certainly powerful enough to take down the whole infirmary. Apparently students three floors below thought it was an earthquake.”

“Oh,” Hermione supplied, blinking rapidly. She had done that? Wandless magic was notoriously difficult, and she had never been able to grasp it, no matter how many books she had read on the subject.

Ron shifted uncomfortably, scratching his neck the way he did before he said anything with even a hint of emotion. “Look, mate—it’s a really shoddy batch you got dealt, yeah? And we—Harry and I—we just want you to know that we’re here for you, designation or no designation, and we’re going to find a way to get you out of this… mess.”

“Turning the tables on me, are you?” Hermione joked tightly, reaching out to take Ron’s rough hand in her own. Against her dark skin, his freckles practically glowed like inverted constellations. “I thought it was _my_ job to get _you_ two out of messes.”

“We mean it ‘Mione,” Harry rasped, reaching for Hermione’s other hand. “What was it you said fifth year?”

“There’s no problem a little chocolate and a hunt through the restricted section of the library can’t solve,” Ron and Harry said simultaneously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omegaverse is the hill I will die on.


	3. To others, courtship may appear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! Dramione will feature in the next chapter; thanks for sticking with me this far.

Ron, Harry, and Hermione were sprawled on Hermione’s bed that evening (the boys would be staying in her room on transfigured beds, and although Hermione suspected McGonagall knew, she hadn’t said anything) when Hermione let out a frustrated growl and slammed the dusty, leather-bound tome on her lap shut with a violent _thump_.

“This isn’t going to work,” she announced flatly.

Harry and Ron immediately protested, but Hermione held up her hands and they fell silent. “My symptoms are going to get worse until I find an Alpha, and the only information about omegas is unhelpful. We’ll be finished with the information the Hogwarts library has by tomorrow. The law treats me like—like a fucking _brood-mare_ , and I have fewer rights as an omega than some magical creatures. I don’t know what to do, short of going into hiding.” At Ron’s thoughtful look, she added, “Which is _not_ an option. I’m sick of running and hiding and I’m sick of being so bloody _afraid_. I couldn’t handle it. I just—I just don’t know what to do.”

The silence stretched out, the only sound Hermione’s heavy breaths, then Harry summoned a parchment and quill and gave Hermione a reassuring smile. “Then why don’t we make a list of things we _do_ know, and go from there?” The role reversal shocked Hermione into nodding glumly, sinking her head into her hands.

“It’s going to be a short list,” she muttered.

The list, as it turned out, was rather long, but spectacularly unhelpful. Harry’s handwriting was atrocious (really, Hermione didn’t know how the boy had passed his O.W.L.s), and when he presented it to her with a flourish she almost laughed at the slanted, spiky lines. “Harry, I don’t think I can read this. Clearly Auror training doesn’t involve penmanship—at this rate, you’ll forget how to write by this time next year.”

Ron snorted, but Harry, feigning offense, snatched the paper back. “Fine, if you’re going to act _childish,_ I’ll read it to you.”

Hermione waved her hands, letting a smile soften the tension in her jaw. This is what she needed—time with her two best friends. They always seemed to figure everything out if they locked themselves together for long enough.

Harry cleared his throat in a high, delicate imitation of Umbridge, and both Ron and Hermione collapsed into a fit of giggles.

“One. Hermione is an omega.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Obviously,” she muttered, but Harry shushed her impatiently.

“Two. At least Dean, Greengrass, Malfoy, and Zabini are Alphas. Three. Hermione blacking out in Ancient Runes constituted _presenting_ , and she catalyzed an ancient spell compelling her to marriage, and while this is a terrible spell, it’s going to make Hermione filthy rich, from my understanding.” The smile dropped off of Hermione’s face. “Four. An omega’s first… erm… heat is generally three to four months after their presentation, so we have at most four months to find you a suitable husband…” at this Harry trailed off and looked at her interestedly. “Or wife?” Hermione could’ve sworn his expression was hopeful. 

Hermione just shook her head. “I’m straight. I think.”

Harry scribbled something down. “You _think_. We’ll have to look into that. Anyway, five, during the heat you will experience the symptoms you had yesterday heightened to an unbearable level and… erm… extreme _sexual arousal_ —” both Ron and Harry looked stricken at the thought of her sexuality, and Hermione hid her laugh in a coughing fit. “—and afterward you’ll experience a period of intense emotional vulnerability. This can all only be mitigated by the presence of an Alpha.” Seemingly in a rush to continue, Harry stumbled over his words. “Which brings us to the fact that Alphas can essentially compel omegas to obey their commands, so it looks like you’ll have to avoid Malfoy, Zabini, and Greengrass—and probably Dean, because you can’t be too careful.”

Hermione nodded, and Ron added, “I can ask Ginny to act as a bodyguard of sorts; she knows a bit about all this because Charlie is an Alpha, and I promise it won’t come to this, but—” he hesitated, looking away. 

Hermione waved her hand impatiently. “But what, Ron,” she replied.

“But—I can owl Charlie and ask him to bid on Sunday. Just in case.”

Hermione nodded tersely. “Alright, but I don’t need a bodyguard.”

Harry struck her with a stubborn glare. “We know that you can protect yourself, Hermione. It’s not about that.”

“Then what _is_ it about?” Hermione shot back, lips pursed in a challenge.

It was Ron who answered. “If someone forces you to bond before the… bidding period, you’ll be obligated to marry them. It’s just a precaution, Hermione.”

Hermione nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

Harry raised his eyes to hers, the muscles in his jaw fluttering. “If worse comes to worse, we’ll need a contingency plan. I can make a list of the wealthy Alphas who will be likely to bid on Sunday—and while drawing this out as long as you can will make you more money—”

“You know that’s not what this about Harry!”

“—all the same, it’s true—while drawing it out will make you more money, Pomfrey says that the longer you stay unbonded, the more severe your symptoms will become and the suppressants she’s given you will start to wear off.”

“So, what, I’m just supposed to find a random man on the street and ask him if he wants to shag and marry me?”

Harry seemed to realize that the biting edge in Hermione’s voice was panic more than anger, and he sighed patiently. “No, that’s not what I meant. You have plenty of time. You’ll find the right person.”

“Yeah, the _right_ person to ruin my life plans and force me to stay at home raising a batch of—of _children_ instead of getting a job at the DMLE.”

Ron snorted. “Children aren’t _cookies_ , Hermione.”

“I know—it’s just last week I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to get married ever at all, you know? And now I’ll be engaged within the year because of some stupid, misogynistic spell. That feeling from the war—like I’m always one step behind—it’s back, and I don’t know if I’m more afraid of the feeling itself or because it feels so familiar and natural.”

“Oh, ‘Mione,” murmured Harry, drawing her into a rough hug. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“You deserve better,” agreed Ron, sandwiching her from the other side. Hermione let herself bask in her friends’ warmth, their lean, Quidditch-sculpted limbs poking her in a comfortingly uncomfortable manner. It was a long while before they pulled away, hair mussed and clothes wrinkled. Harry and Ron produced a picnic dinner, sandwiches slightly smashed from their extended stay in the pocket of Harry’s robes, and they ate together on Hermione’s bed. For once, Hermione wasn’t bothered about crumbs and she didn’t comment on Ron’s obnoxiously loud chewing—she just sat between her two best friends, clinging to the moment because she knew instinctively that she would never be the same.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Harry and Ron walked her down to breakfast the next day, and they planned to spend the day researching. Pomfrey had told Hermione that if she didn’t take at least one day off class, she would keep her locked up in the infirmary for the next week, and while Hermione was loathe to fall behind on her schoolwork, the extra time to research would undoubtedly be helpful, especially with Harry and Ron. She wasn’t sure how they had gotten the next four days off work, but she didn’t question it—not when it was already Thursday.

She almost didn’t go to breakfast, but Harry and Ron had wheedled her until she caved, assuring her that no one would know what happened to her as long as she took the suppressant potions that Pomfrey had provided her with. It was strange, having Ron and Harry at Hogwarts—at once a reminder that nothing had changed and that everything had changed.

Pausing outside the doors to the Great Hall nervously, Hermione shot a look at Ron and Harry. “Erm—” she began.

Ron shoved her forward unceremoniously. “Oi, no one knows, ‘Mione. Now get on with it, I’m starving.”

Hermione laughed.

She had already walked a good five meters into the hall when she realized it everyone was staring at her. She paused.

A hush fell over the room, so different from the respectful silence that had greeted McGonagall just a week before. 

“Uh, Harry?” Hermione asked weakly, “You don’t suppose all this fuss is because I’m walking in with the Boy-Who-Lived, do you?” Why was everyone staring at her? They couldn’t know… could they? Had someone told? Dread pooled in Hermione’s stomach, cold and heavy. Her breaths came shorter and she had to gulp to swallow.

Harry paled. Ron reached for her arm, practically dragging her to the Gryffindor table and announcing loudly, “Merlin, I can’t wait to get a hold of those chicken apple sausages! How many d’you think I can eat this time? Ten? Fifteen?” 

Slowly, conversation began to resume, but Hermione could still feel the weight of eyes on her back. She gave Ron’s arm a grateful squeeze.

She sat down next to Ginny, shooting her a wide-eyed look that she hoped conveyed all of her terror and confusion. “Ginny—”

Ginny dropped something in her lap, eyes trained on her as if she was worried she would do something drastic. Paper. _The Daily Prophet._

It was the headline that made Hermione’s hands ball into fists.

_“Hermione Granger, Gryffindor’s Golden Girl, is the First Registered Omega in Half a Century!”_

A strangled sound escaped Hermione’s mouth. They knew. Everyone knew. Front page of the _Prophet,_ like there wasn’t actual news to report on. Eyes still weighed heavily on her, but she couldn’t muster up the courage to look up. Her fists shook as they grasped the paper. A photo of her took up half the page—it must have been taken after some awards ceremony, because Hermione was in dress robes. She watched as photo-Hermione looked up, startled, to meet the camera lens—then the loop repeated. It was a vulnerable look, and with the makeup Ginny had cajoled her into wearing, her face looked soft and delicate. She hated the picture. It made her seem like everything she was not.

Shit. Shitshitshit. 

Ginny’s hand settled on her shoulder. “Do you want to read it now or later?” she asked gently. Hermione felt relief flood her that Ginny didn’t ask about Hermione being an omega.

“Now,” she whispered, eyes still stuck on the page.

It was Rita Skeeter—of course. If she somehow thought that she was safe from Hermione’s impressive collection of mason jars, that woman had another thing coming for her.

_If you, dear reader, are as shocked as I am at the discovery that Hermione Granger was registered as an omega less than an hour ago, rest assured that you are in good company. This revelation is poised to shake the wizarding world, perhaps even more so than the recent rumors about the Golden Trio’s illicit, sordid ménage a trois._

_There has been much speculation about the decline in presenting omegas. Lead researchers at the Ministry of Magic have determined that the dearth is likely due to the dangers of wartime—omega witches and wizards are uniquely vulnerable to the types of violence that abounded during the Dark Lord’s reign of terror, and some professionals have hypothesized that omega biology suppressed itself as a natural response to this perceived danger. But this begs the question:_ why Ms. Granger? _Surely she was as exposed—if not more—to wartime dangers as any other witch or wizard—so why, after all this time, has she been awarded this honor?_

_Her personality seems at odd with the naturally submissive omega biology—while it is often noted that omegas are particularly powerful magic-users, which certainly fits with what we know of Ms. Granger, she is notoriously abrasive and dominant in nature. In fact, many witches and wizards (including myself and some of her former classmates) speculated that all three members of the Golden Trio would present Alpha—but I happen to know (exclusively, I might add) that both Mr. Weasley and The Boy Who Lived are betas. What effect will Ms. Granger’s designation have on her love affairs with Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley? Will they be forced to let each other go in the face of insurmountable biology, or will they continue their star-crossed debauchery for as long as possible despite the odds?_

_Speaking of speculation, I’ve saved the juiciest piece of gossip for last._

_The enchantment that binds all presented omegas to a bidding Alpha of his or her choosing has not been activated since the last omega presented sixty-four years ago, but I have it on good authority that the spell is still very much unbreakable, and bidding for Ms. Granger’s hand will begin Sunday at midnight—it appears that not even Gryffindor’s Golden Girl is above the law (or, in this case, an ancient biological enchantment). Who will bid on Ms. Granger? Will she draw out the bidding in an attempt to compensate for her humble origins, or end it quickly to bond with an Alpha for the excruciatingly painful time between her presentation and her maiden heat? Who will she chose?_

_All this and more, only at_ The Daily Prophet. __

_(See page 7 for a list of all presented Alphas in Britain under eighty.)_

Hermione slammed the paper down on the table, jostling her pumpkin juice. Her breathing came fast and she felt her cheeks flame with a mix of anger and shame; it was a few moments before she was able to calm down enough to take a long sip of her pumpkin juice.

“Hermione—” Ginny began, brows furrowed in concern.

“Not here,” Hermione muttered. She speared a sausage angrily and shoved it into her mouth, chewing rapidly.

Ron picked up the _Prophet_ from where she had dropped it; Harry leaned over his shoulder.

“Blimey,” Ron swore.

Harry observed, “Well, so much for step one.”

Step one of their two-step plan was to make sure that no one, under any circumstances, found out about Hermione’s designation.

Hermione stuffed a whole pancake in her mouth. God, what was with the wizarding world always ruining her plans?

There was an awkward silence as Hermione ate breakfast as quickly as possible, and then Dean Thomas, sitting across from Ron, scooted closer to Hermione. “Hey—listen Hermione—”

“Shut it, Thomas,” barked Ron.

“It’s fine, Ron,” Hermione mumbled, motioning for Dean to continue. The blood rushed to her face, and she looked down at her melon to avoid Dean’s eyes. It really was spectacularly unfair for anyone to have eyelashes as dark as Dean.

“I, uh—well, I saw the article in the _Prophet,_ and—er, I just wanted to apologize for the other night.”

“The other night?” Hermione asked faintly. Why had she never noticed how attractive Dean was? She snuck a look at him—his fist gripped his fork tightly, causing the muscles in his forearm to ripple. His hair haloed around his face, framing his dark skin, and his mouth was pulled into an apologetic smile.. He had a nice mouth.

Hermione shifted in her seat, suddenly acutely aware of an ache between her legs.

“Yeah—y’know, during the Start-of-Term Feast. I could tell you were different—not that you haven’t always been beautiful—you’re the most beautiful witch I’ve ever—wait—I don’t mean—shit.”

Hermione watched his lips move with fascination, thinking about how they would feel nibbling on her ear or kissing her neck. Yes—her neck—that would be nice. Just under her ear.

She reached up absentmindedly to rub her neck, letting out a soundless sigh at the relief. Vaguely, she remembered Pomfrey saying something about scent glands on her neck and wrists, but what was more important at the moment was the way Dean’s eyes followed her hand, darkening for a moment, before he shook his head.

“What I mean to say is that I’m not sure how much of that—of coming on to you and being overprotective—was my Alpha urges, and if it was, I’m sorry. I’m sure you have enough to deal with without fending off overprotective Alphas, and I know you can take care of yourself. If there’s anything I can do to help out, let me know—if you want me to bid, or not bid, or help you find a way out of this cursed spell…”

The word “bid” was like a bucket of ice water, and Hermione shook herself thoroughly. Dean was an Alpha—of course he’d have this effect on her. The students around her were giving her odd looks, watching the interaction. She needed to leave—clear her head. 

She stood abruptly, remembering herself long enough to send a genuine smile Dean’s way and to assure him not to worry before darting out of the Great Hall, holding her chin high and pretending that this was anything but a cowardly retreat.

She didn’t have to look to know that Ron, Harry, and Ginny had followed her.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Hermione ran through the options and schemes, ticking them off on her fingers as she said them out loud for Ginny’s benefit; Ron and Harry had heard them before (more than a few times).

“Now that the spell is in motion, I can’t marry anyone other than a bidder, so faking a prior engagement is out of the question. Our last-minute plan is to pool resources and have Charlie bid on Sunday, although I suppose Dean would do too. I considered allowing an Alpha—again, Dean or Charlie—to mark and bond with me, but the spell wouldn’t allow it. McGonagall has lent me every book on enchantment-dissolution in the Hogwarts library as well as her personal collection, and I’m about three-fourths of the way through them with no success. I asked Vector about using Arithmancy combined with curse-breaking to alter the spell’s perception of me, and I have a meeting set up with her tomorrow. Harry contacted Shacklebolt, and he’s doing what he can to keep the shadiest bidders from the pool, and trying to keep the whole thing under wraps. Skeeter has received no less than fifty owls all carrying mason jars with holes poked in the lids and a strongly worded letter courtesy of yours truly, and Ron is going to talk to her on Saturday to try and dissuade her from publishing further information about me. I’ve been looking into omega laws—and, well, right now everything seems sort of bleak.”

Ginny blinked, still visibly reeling from Hermione’s confirmation that she was, in fact, an omega.

“Shit, H,” she muttered, voice hoarse. Wordlessly, she patted her lap, and Hermione settled onto the bed and rested her head on the younger girl’s thighs. Harry paced; Ron settled himself into Hermione’s desk chair.

The four friends talked until lunch, strategising and devising contingency plans in a manner that was painfully reminiscent of their sixth and seventh years. Finally, Hermione stretched, relishing in the burning of her arms as she raised them above her head. She settled her hands back into her lap, rubbing her wrists together absentmindedly.

“Er—do you mind if we eat here? I’m not sure if I’m quite ready to go to the Great Hall for lunch.”

Her friends nodded easily, and Ginny left the room with a cheeky wink. “Since _I_ don’t scare away all the house elves with the mere threat of knitting needles, I imagine I’ll be able to procure us some sandwiches,” she quipped before the door clicked shut, grinning at Hermione’s eye roll.

True to her word, Ginny returned fifteen minutes later and pulled a feast from a picnic basket—lemon chicken soup, American style mac n cheese, salads, and those little candied mandarin oranges that the elves always made around New Year. Hermione lifted an eyebrow in surprise. They were all her favorite foods.

“Apparently even the elves read the _Prophet,_ ” Ginny remarked, spreading a checkered cloth down on Hermione’s bed and unloading the food. “I don’t know if this is meant to be a congratulatory thing or if it’s a pity-feast.”

Hermione frowned, put out by the idea of the news reaching so far. They had tried (and failed) to issue a recall on the _Prophet_ , and Hermione was sure that the news would be spreading far beyond wizarding Britain at this rate. An unpleasant shame twisted her gut. She didn’t want to be seen as some submissive broodmare—she wanted to be known for her hard work and her intelligence. It seemed like the media always forgot a woman’s brains at the first convenience. 

“How did the elves know my favorite foods?” she asked, spooning scalding hot soup into her mouth. The lemony tang warmed her tongue, and she closed her eyes in relief as the rumbling in her stomach finally ceased.

Ron snorted. “They ‘prolly just wanted to know what _not_ to serve after you pulled that spew stunt.”

Hermione elbowed him, but laughed. “S.P.E.W.,” she corrected him, “and clearly they’re not _all_ that angry, if they prepared this.”

Ginny shrugged, the motion doing little to disguise the smile that curled the edges of her mouth. “I do remember one elf saying something about having night terrors of socks,” she mused, easily dodging the candied orange that Hermione threw her way and pucking it from where it landed on Hermione’s duvet to plop it in her mouth. Hermione joined in the laughter despite the obvious affront to her honor, and thought to herself, _just because elves suffered from glorified Stockholm Syndrome didn’t mean they weren’t worth saving—I mean,_ really.

Despite the combined efforts of four of the most famous magic-users in Britain, the afternoon yielded little fruit. The most useful information they came across was a passage in an old book about magical creatures, likening an Alpha/omega mating bond to that of a Veela and their true mate. Hermione thought it was a load of bollocks. 

“True mate indeed,” Hermione mumbled to herself, “because what every woman wants is a man to buy her affections.” 

Ginny had grinned impishly and shrugged, as if to say, _What’s wrong with that?_

Hermione scoffed, shoving her friend. “Dinner?” she asked, her stomach already grumbling.

Ginny, eyes still bright with mirth, nodded. “I’ll see if the elves have any more tricks up their sleeves,” she agreed, getting up.

“No,” Hermione said adamantly, perhaps a bit too harshly. “I want to go to the Great Hall.”

Harry and Ron’s brows shot up. “You sure?” mumbled Ron, jaw clenching.

Hermione just shrugged, a jerky, poor imitation of Ginny’s earlier carefree movement that betrayed her anxiety more than it relayed nonchalance. “I’m going to have to face everyone at some point, and I might as well do it now. I’m not a coward.”

“No one said you were,” Harry assured her gently.

Hermione’s voice was clipped. “Yes, well, we wouldn’t want it to be perceived that way, would we? Bad enough that people already think I’m some—some submissive bitch in heat to be sold to the highest bidder. They’ll be looking for a show—we’ll just have to give them one they won’t expect.”

“Alright,” Ron said slowly. His voice had taken on the tone that it assumed when he talked about his favorite Quidditch players—awed and impressed—but it was layered with caution that everyone seemed to be treating her with lately. “Nothing like a little Gryffindor theatrics, yeah?”

Hermione grinned devilishly. “Oh, just you wait, Ronald,” she returned easily.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

They had barely made it through the doors of the Great Hall—greeted by the same, instantaneous silence and attention as they were at breakfast—when a fifth-year Ravenclaw—Hermione thought his name might have been Keith or Kenneth (Kerral? Wizards always had such odd names.)—stepped boldly in front of Hermione, looking her up and down with an entitled air that made Hermione’s blood run hot with anger.

“So,” he drawled, “you’re the omega, yeah?”

Ron stepped forward, mouth open to deliver a furious retort, but Hermione stayed him with a flick of her hand and a meaningful look. Reluctantly, he backed down, but not before placing a protective hand between her shoulder blades. Hermione could have sworn she had heard low growls from the Slytherin table to her right, but she didn’t turn and look. Instead, she focused all of her energy into adopting a bored, superior look, masking her irritation.

“Kerral,” she greeted coolly, narrowing her eyes. 

“Kris,” he corrected. Hermione just shrugged noncommittally, as if to say, _Same difference._

The boy jutted out his jaw. No doubt he fancied himself a future Alpha, but, inexplicably, Hermione could tell that he would present as beta. She filed away this information for later, mulling it over in the back of her brain. 

Clearly eager to regain his footing, Kris folded his arms across his chest and asked smoothly, “How did you conceal it?”

Momentarily flustered, Hermione replied, “Excuse me?”

The boy gestured impatiently. “Your designation. How did you conceal it for so long? You can’t have presented so late. Others have a right to know your designation, you know—you lied and cheated.”

Hermione scoffed. A right? Bullshit. The wizarding world was more backward than she thought if this is what they believed. She jerked her chin up in a motion that mirrored that of the Ravenclaw before her, setting her feet firmly. She felt the eyes on her, waiting to see how she would react, and raised her voice slightly, ensuring that it carried.

“ _Kenneth,_ ” she crooned in her best Pansy Parkinson voice, letting the letters drip disdainfully from her tongue. The tone she adopted was unfamiliarly honeyed; a heady rush of power flooded to her brain at the uncertain look in the boy’s eyes. “Ten points from Ravenclaw—five for ludicrous accusations and five for assuming you are entitled to my personal business.” She conjured a thick dictionary, opened it to page five hundred and fifty three, and shoved it into Kris’s folded arms. He grabbed it out of reflex; she continued. “Third column to the left; second paragraph. I suggest you revisit the definition of a _right_ , as, despite your disillusions, you have absolutely no right to any information about my designation.”

The boy spluttered and dropped the book with a loud thud. Several first years nearby jumped at the sound. “Kris. My name’s Kris—and don’t think for a minute that your abuse of power can hide what you are, _omega_.” His voice was laced with a biting anger (good; everything was going according to plan). Hermione just shrugged easily.

“Another five points for questioning the authority of the Head Girl, _Keith._ Want me to take more?”

Kris fumed silently, lips pressed into a thin white line.

Hermione nodded crisply. “That’s what I thought.” She stepped delicately over the dictionary and around Kris, head held high, but paused a few feet behind the boy, who had turned to watch angrily as she walked past him. “Oh, and _Kyle?_ Obviously you think you’ll present Alpha, but if I were you, I’d tread a little more carefully. I can tell from twenty meters away that you’ll be a beta—and a rather weak one, at that—no telling what _real_ Alphas would do to you for threatening an omega.” The threat was empty—she wasn’t sure any of the Alphas would stand up for her, except maybe Dean, but from the way the blood drained from Ravenclaw’s face, she could tell he was terrified. As an afterthought, she added, “You’re welcome to keep the dictionary as a token of my affections.” She sent him a saccharine smile and turned with a woosh of her robes, walking swiftly to the Gryffindor table. A Slytherin sixth year stepped in her path and opened his mouth as if he was going to speak, but she sent him a withering glare. 

“You want points taken, too?” she threatened. He moved, chagrinned, and she swept past him, settling at the Gryffindor table between Ron and Ginny and digging into her food with abandon. Merlin, she was hungry—and she’d only eaten hours ago.

She ate her fill, and then some (just when she thought she couldn’t fit another bite in, a plate of those deliciously sweet and tangy mandarin oranges appeared in front of her), and by the end of dinner, she had taken twenty-five points from Gryffindor, an additional fifteen from Ravenclaw, five from Slytherin, and five from Hufflepuff. She sighed happily, her belly full and content—but then Blaise Zabini tried to approach her. Ron stood abruptly before she could threaten Zabini with point removal (which, now that she thought about it, why would she take points from someone with such a symmetrical face?).

“One step closer, Zabini, and I’ll hex you where it hurts,” Ron threatened, face an alarming shade of red. 

Hermione watched curiously as Zabini laughed—the sound loud and deep and all-encompassing (Hermione thought that Blaise Zabini’s laugh was a sound she would very much like to hear every day for the rest of her life, and she wouldn’t mind seeing those straight, white teeth and smooth, dark skin again either).

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Weasel,” Zabini rumbled, smiling despite the contemptuous words coming out of his mouth. He shot a look at Hermione, and she instantly felt like liquid—Zabini was rumored to be good in bed, and, if she were being honest with herself, Hermione wouldn’t mind putting that rumor to the test. Right now, in fact. On top of the table. 

Ron snarled, but Zabini only shrugged, not breaking eye contact with Hermione. “I was just going to offer Granger my services—”

“Hermione doesn’t need—”

“—I think it’s up to her to decide what she does and does not need.” Zabini’s voice was smooth and dangerous, but he held up a placating hand to Ron. The skin of his palm looked soft, and Hermione was struck with an inexplicable urge to kiss it. He laughed again, and for those few seconds, the sound was all Hermione could focus on. “Relax, Weasel, and get your mind out of the gutter. Though I’d be more than happy to offer Granger _those_ services—” Ron stepped forward in warning, but Zabini continued as if Ron were no more than a fly. “—I was referring to my knowledge. Specifically, my knowledge about designation law and tradition, which, due to my Pureblood” (Hermione didn’t miss the way he sneered at the word) “upbringing, is vast.”

Ron scoffed, beginning an impatient “Sod off,” but Hermione cut him off, looking intently at the Slytherin and turning on the bench so she could face him. She shoved Ron over to the side a bit and stood, facing Zabini.

“Why?” she challenged, not so enamored by the playful curve of his luscious lips (that really was the most apt word, even if it seemed a bit gratuitous) that she was blind to the possibility of ulterior motives. With Slytherins, you never could tell. 

Zabini shrugged. “You seem to be in a bind. I’m in a position to help. Why shouldn’t I? Must I always act out of cunning selfishness?” The last words were uttered with a lightness, as if teasing Hermione for her distrust of Slytherins.

She raised a brow. “Yes.”

Zabini threw his head back and laughed—again—and Hermione found herself consumed by a burning desire to draw that sound from him, again and again and again until she could memorise every flash of his teeth and rumble of his voice. “I promise I’m won’t _intentionally_ try to get in your pants, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he replied, but his wicked grin was the opposite of reassuring. “Just think on it, Granger. You’re not in a position to snub an offer of help.”

Hermione blinked, and he was gone, his tall, black-robed figure weaving between the tables to settle beside Malfoy, who was watching Hermione with a curious intensity in his eyes despite the bored façade that occupied his features. 

She wrenched her gaze away and turned to Ron, reaching out to pat his arm. “Thanks for standing up for me, but it really wasn’t necessary,” she assured him.

Ron’s mouth twisted to show his displeasure, but he acquiesced nonetheless with an apologetic nod of his head. “I didn’t mean to take away your autonomy—Merlin knows there are enough people trying to do that already—but I just wasn’t sure how you would react because he’s an Alpha and all, given how you were talking to Dean this morning.”

Right. Zabini was an Alpha. The pieces in Hermione’s brain clicked in place (how had she not realized that he was an Alpha? She must have been distracted by the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.). She nodded, suddenly overcome with affection for Ron. “Thanks, Ron,” she replied, sending him a half-smile, and then turned to Harry and Ginny, who were both watching her and Ron carefully. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?” she said lightly, popping a last slice of orange in her mouth.

“Yeah, before you drain all of Gryffindor’s points,” Ginny remarked, grinning. “Which, by the way, was brilliant—the way you handled—what’s his name? Kegel? You’re a right Slytherin.”

They laughed as they left the Great Hall, and Hermione ignored the angry glare that Ron sent to the Slytherin table. 

Ron would have a fit if he knew that Hermione was seriously considering Zabini’s offer—but, she decided, an angry Ron was less of a problem than her gaping lack of knowledge about being an omega. Ron could suck it up.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Hermione banished Harry and Ron to their room in Hogsmeade and Ginny to her dorm, wanting privacy. They embraced her in a crushing group hug before they parted ways, and Ron mumbled, “If you meet with Zabini, take one of us with you.”

“You’re not going to try and stop me?” Hermione’s voice was surprised, muffled by Harry’s shoulder and Ginny’s hair.

“I know better than to try and stop you when you’ve got that look about you.”

Hermione laughed, squirming out of their hug and bidding them goodbye, and thanked them profusely for helping her research. Harry and Ron assured her that they would be staying until Monday morning, after the results of the bidding were announced, and when Hermione opened the door to her room it almost felt empty without her three best friends—but she had forced them away for a reason.

With a huff, Hermione plopped down on her bed, unbuttoned her pants, and unceremoniously shoved a hand down her panties, trying to relieve the burning need that coiled in her gut.

Yes, good thing Harry and Ron weren’t there.


	4. ’Tis sacriledge to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey loves! This chapter is a little shorter than the others, but I wanted to end on a cliff hanger, so ... whoops? I know I promised more Dramione in this chapter and uhhh that was a lie (sorry). All mistakes in this chapter are my own, as I'm posting it un-beta'd, so pardon any typos.
> 
> Also—if you're wondering, I imagine Hermione to look like Ashley Moore and Draco to look like Lucky Blue Smith. Tbh, Ashley Moore could run me over with a train and I would still be in love with her. 
> 
> Let's bring in the New Year with drama, shall we?

By the time Sunday morning rolled around, Hermione was desperate. Research had never failed her before—and, in fact (at the risk of self aggrandizement) she would go as far as to say that her researching skills saved the wizarding world more than a few times—but with all the help of the Gryffindor eighth years, Harry, Ron, and what seemed like half the Hogwarts staff, she was still empty handed. It was only twelve hours until the results of the first bidding would be revealed at midnight and less than that before the Ministry officials came to bind her with a Wizard’s Oath to comply with the enchantment.

Mid-morning sunlight filtered through the library’s stained glass windows, illuminating the dust that floated languidly among the stacks. Harry and Ron read studiously by her side, and she could tell that their attention was beginning to flag, though they would never admit it themselves—not about something this important. 

_Alphas and omegas have no definite origin,_ Hermione read, _but plenty of legends hypothesize. Many myths hold that omegas evolved during ancient wizarding times to counter increasingly aggressive and powerful individuals whose power-seeking threatened the community, while others, circulated widely among the early Renaissance by the Catholic church, claim that omegas were created to serve Alphas. Throughout the world, witches and wizards have incorporated Alpha, beta, and omega mythology into their religions. Christianity, for example, cites the immaculate conception of Jesus Christ as a result of a bond between the Virgin Mary and God, unconsummated because God could not bind himself to any one being. Many Buddhists believe that Buddha is simultaneously Alpha, beta, and omega, while ancient Romans believed that Alphas and omegas were demigods, the offspring or gods and humans (although conflicting sources from that time period claim that Eros and Psyche formed the First Bond, and any later Alphas and omegas resulted from their union). Perhaps most interesting is a theory accepted by the Indigenous peoples of the Americas and the Mongolian nomads that holds that the omega designation was a gift from those beyond the Veil to exceptionally powerful witches and wizards who were targeted with violence by those envious of their ability, enabling the gift-bearers to protect themselves from violence. Some non-secular wizarding communities claim that the omega designation originates from a time when magic was not Dark or Light, but simply raw, neutral, and powerful, and that omegas arose as the First Light to combat the birth of Dark magic. Notable omegas in Western history include Helen of Troy, Hatshepsut, Katherine Philips, and Anne Boleyn._

Hermione shut the book with an audible thud. She couldn’t deny that she found the information fascinating, but it offered no help in dismantling the enchantment by the nameless witch—she, Harry, and Ron had been searching for days for information about the spell or its caster, hoping to discover clues as to how to reverse it, but any book that looked promising mentioned only the properties of the spell, the date of its casting—June 22, 1664—and that it was irreversible. If the books described it in further detail, the pages were ripped out. Hermione had consulted McGonagall about the affront to Hogwarts’ property, but she was just as puzzled as Hermione—and, after further research, it appeared that books describing the spell from all over the world had suffered from the same fate.

The coordinator of the interlibrary loan program between Hogwarts, Durmstrang, Ilvermorny, and Beauxbatons was getting rather fed up with Hermione’s incessant pestering.

With a heavy sigh, Hermione pulled a parchment out of her beaded bag, scribbled a hasty note, and enchanted it into one of the paper airplanes that the Ministry was so fond of. 

It seemed that talking to Blaise Zabini was unavoidable.

:::

Predictably, Zabini gave a winning smile as he swaggered into the library, settling himself in the seat across from Hermione like it was a throne. Malfoy followed him in, face fixed in a scowl, and slid into the seat next to him.

Harry and Ron, despite being forewarned of Zabini’s visit, sent the two Slytherins dirty looks, both scooting closer to Hermione.

There was a heavy silence for a moment in which both parties sized each other up, and then Hermione cleared her throat.

“I thought I told you to come alone,” she said crisply, sending a disparaging glance to Malfoy, who was examining his fingernails nonchalantly.

Zabini’s grin grew wolfish. “You have backup, why shouldn’t I?”

“This isn’t war, Zabini,” Hermione pointed out.

“Isn’t it?”

Hermione frowned, and Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Zabini just shrugged casually, cutting him off with a half-smile.

“Don’t worry witch, this time I’m on your side.”

_This time._

Hermione shivered, pushing away her dark thoughts, and ground out, “Why?”

Zabini laid his hands flat on the table, leaning forward slightly. “It may have escaped your notice, but the Zabinis are one of the wealthiest families in wizarding Britain.” From beside him, Malfoy snorted without looking up, but Zabini continued, unbothered. “My mother,” he said, rolling the word around delicately on his tongue like it was a dish he couldn’t decide the flavor of, “wants me to marry well. But most of all, she wants redemption for our family from our regrettable, if tenuous, association with He-Who—er, Voldemort. What better way to claw her way back into society’s good graces than marrying her son off to Hermione Granger, beacon of the light?”

“Are you threatening me, Zabini?”

Zabini laughed. “Don’t be daft, Granger. _I_ don’t want to marry you.”

Despite having no desire to marry Zabini, either, his words still stung. “Right, of course, I’m a mudblood,” she muttered sourly. Harry shot her a withering look, his mouth twisting in anger. He hated when she used that word.

Malfoy looked up to watch the interaction between herself and Zabini, one elegant eyebrow cocked in an expression of interest.

“Merlin, no,” Zabini replied brows furrowed. “Look, I’m not perfect, but I’ve experienced enough discrimination for my skin color to recognize blood purity as a load of utter bollocks. It’s not that I would mind having you in my bed—” low snarls escaped from the other three boys at the table, and Hermione’s cheeks warmed “—I just don’t want to marry, and my mum’s sure to make me bid. If I can help you circumvent the law altogether, it’s a win-win. Is that so hard to believe?”

 _Yes._ Hermione pursed her lips. She could figure out his ulterior motives later—maybe he wanted her to owe him a favor. Right now, however, she couldn’t turn down help. “I guess not. It doesn’t matter anyway. If you’re helping, you’re helping.”

Ron grumbled next to her, but she sent him a quelling look, and he stopped, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring daggers at Malfoy as if he assessed him to be a bigger threat than Zabini.

Zabini gave a brilliant smile. “Right, that’s the spirit. Now, I assume that you’ve already devoured most of the available books available on omega law—” Hermione nodded “—so I took the liberty of transcribing some of the information passed down orally in pureblood families. You likely wouldn’t be able to get this information anywhere else.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a few hefty scrolls, piling them in front of Hermione. “They’re mostly notes, and I’m sure you’ll find them terribly disorganized, but even if they don’t help you break the enchantment, they should make sure that you don’t head in to all this—” he waved a hand about dramatically “—blind.”

Hermione blinked, impressed, but also suspicious. When she said “thank you,” it sounded more like a question than gratitude, and Zabini chuckled. 

“No need to thank me, Granger, just break the spell.”

With a bemused nod, Hermione gathered the scrolls toward her. Zabini pushed his chair back with an inelegant screeching sound and flounced out of the library without so much as a goodbye, and after a moment of studying her intensely, Malfoy followed. Zabini smelled excellent, but Hermione couldn’t help but think that Malfoy smelled even better, a mix of something earthy and something exhilaratingly windswept that made Hermione want to get on a broom that instant, despite her fear of flying, if it meant Malfoy’s arms around her and his breath on her neck and the wind in her hair.

Instantly, Hermione exhaled loudly, trying to breathe back in only clean, non-Malfoy air and rid her mind of those traitorous thoughts, but his scent still lingered, mingling subtly with the comforting, familiar smell of the library. Hermione wondered if there was a spell to block her sense of smell. Maybe she should ask Pomfrey about it.

It took a few moments for her to gather herself enough to realize that Harry and Ron were arguing quietly beside her, both of their hands flying wildly in the way that they did when they disagreed.

“—might be cursed,” Ron said, slashing his hand for emphasis.

Harry ran his hands through his hair. “It doesn’t matter, Ron, can’t you see that we need all the help we can get? We can’t just let Hermione be married off to some bloke who just cares about—”

Hermione interrupted them by reaching for a scroll and untying the pretty green-and-silver ribbon (real subtle, Zabini; as if she could ever forget who she was dealing with). It sprang open with a rustle of parchment; inside were haphazard notes in two different handwritings, one elegant and one rushed. She turned to the boys with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t you want to know what it says?”

Sheepishly, they looked away from the paper to her face and nodded in affirmation.

Hermione smiled, fighting off the sense of hopelessness. They would never break the spell in time, not with only ten hours ‘til midnight. “Then get reading.”

:::

It was McGonagall who came to fetch her for the Oath ceremony. She had read Zabini’s scrolls three times over, and, while they were interesting and indubitably useful, she was no closer to breaking the spell. As McGonagall stood over her in the library, she felt a sense of dread settle low in her stomach. After tonight, if she said the wizard’s oath, there was no backing out. Even if she researched the spell enough to break it—which, she promised herself, she would, if only for future omegas—she would be bound to comply with its stipulations.

“Is it time?” she asked McGonagall, her throat tight. It seemed like she was never in control over her life; like there was some cruel god pulling her in this direction and that just to see if she’d survive.

McGonagall only nodded, face set in hard lines. Hermione gathered up her things, and Harry and Ron made to do the same, but she reached out a trembling hand to stop them.

“I want to do this alone,” she managed, her voice sounding more assured than she felt. Hermione wasn’t sure what prompted her to say it, only that she knew making the Oath alone was the right way. She didn’t need Harry and Ron to be there for the ceremony to know that they would support her.

Harry’s eyebrows creased in confusion and distress. “I thought maybe you’d want one of us to…?”

Hermione shook her head, trying and failing to muster a reassuring smile for her friend. “No. If I did that—I don’t want to look at either of you be reminded of my helplessness.” _I don’t think I could survive it._

Harry nodded and pulled her into a fierce hug.

“Alright, ‘Mione,” he agreed, mouth pressed flat. Hermione hugged Ron and left the library, knowing they would wait for her in her room. She had made them stay in Hogsmeade for the past few nights so she could take care of the burning arousal that apparently was par for the course for omegas (especially unbonded omegas), but she had a gut feeling that she would need them to stay tonight, and maybe Ginny too.

She followed McGonagall up the winding staircases and through the halls, occasionally catching glimpses of the dark sky through windows, and tried to fight the rising panic. Everything about the situation felt so unknown—so unpredictable. Just when she was beginning to feel like she belonged—in Hogwarts, in the wizarding world, with her friends—she had to go and have _this_ happen. If there were any gods, they were pulling out all the stops in trying to keep Hermione from fitting in with the magical world.

Hermione breathed in time with her steps— _in_ two-three-four _out_ two-three-four—until they reached McGonagall’s office. Shacklebolt and another official waited, seated uncomfortably on the plush couch.

“I didn’t realize I was so high profile,” Hermione commented wryly as a greeting, eyeing the badge that marked Kingsley as the Minister of Magic. She inclined her head to him, and he sent her a tight, reassuring smile.

The official, a balding man with wrinkled jowls, scoffed. “Of course you are. First omega in half a century, and a war heroine at that—we couldn’t send anyone but the best.”

“Right,” Hermione replied tightly, already deciding that she didn’t like the man.

“I’m Mr. Harvey Jonesidge, head of the Magical Oaths subdepartment under the DMLE, and I’ll be casting your Oath tonight. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Granger.”

Hermione nodded a greeting, gritting her teeth. “About that—er, is it okay if Kingsley does the binding? It’s just, I’m much more familiar with him and…” she trailed off, casting a glance at the Minister.

Jonesidge looked taken aback. “I’m sure there’s no need. _Mr. Shacklebolt_ is here only to oversee the binding, and I assure you, I am—”

“I would be honored to be your binder, Hermione,” Kingsley cut in smoothly, his voice final. “After all, as Mr. Jonsidge so astutely pointed out, you are not exactly an average case, and I’m sure the DMLE won’t mind us making you as comfortable as possible.” He sent Hermione a conspiratorial quirk of his lips, and she felt relief flood her anxious muscles.

“Thank you,” she replied quietly.

“Of course, Minister,” the binder said stiffly. “And I presume you will be bound to the Headmistress, no?” Hermione nodded.

Kingsley gestured for Hermione and McGonagall to clasp hands, and he had both of them repeat the words that Hermione had read in advance, combing through for hidden tricks and double meanings. There was a buzzing sensation in her palm, and then yellow ribbons of magic swirled around her and McGonagall’s wrists, settling into her skin with an odd sense of finality that left Hermione feeling more nervous than before. 

McGonagall dismissed the two men in her usual curt fashion, and Kingsley pulled Hermione in for a brief hug before they departed via floo.

Hermione flinched when the fire flashed green, reminded of a more violent, deadly green light that she had seen one too many times. She hated green magic. At least when she had been fighting Voldemort, there had been an enemy to rally against. Now, she didn’t know what she was fighting. Ancient spells didn’t make for very tangible opponents—then again, neither did the nightmares she’d had of Bellatrix Lestrange, so she supposed no fight was purely physical. For all their empathy, she doubted Harry, for all his nightmares, or Ron, who seemed to make the intangible tangible with sheer force of will, would ever understand that some things couldn’t be fought or dueled. They had fought for the same things that she had—justice and love and equality—but to them, the concepts were so real and attainable that they might as well have been capitalized proper nouns—places they could visit if they only fought hard enough; people they could touch if they were just determined enough. Sometimes, she almost believed it too—when Harry was speaking with such conviction that denying him his beliefs seemed like it would end the world. But for all his trauma—trauma that Hermione could never invalidate—Harry still believed that his ideals were cities-on-hills—stationary, waiting patiently for the arrival of the Boy-Who-Lived—that the Light would fight the Dark simply because the Light was capital-G Good. 

She loved him for it—hell, the world loved him for it—but she had seen what people who were undeniably good were capable of. She had seen what she, herself, was capable of. That bright, flashing Avada Kedavra was the least of their problems—that, at least, could be fought with wand and word—the worst enemies were the ones that they created for themselves.

Hermione didn’t register McGonagall speaking, and she jumped when she felt the old woman’s warm hand on her shoulder. 

“Huh?” she asked, blinking.

McGonagall smiled, a small thing. “The bidding has begun, and Minister Shacklebolt has assured me that you will be notified as soon as the results are available in about an hour or so. I took the liberty of summoning Ms. Weasley to escort you back to your rooms. She’s quite understanding, and not nearly as much trouble as those two boys.”

“Oh, thank you Headmistress.” Hermione smiled gratefully, still looking at the fireplace out of the corner of her eyes. McGonagall nodded sagely, opening the door and handing her off to Ginny with a sad look.

Ginny didn’t say a word, just grasped her hand tightly—the hand that had been bound—and began the trek back to Hermione’s rooms.

:::

The wait seemed longer than it was. Even though Harry and Ron had brought her dinner, she didn’t eat, just sat quietly while the two boys made small talk with Ginny. There was a light knock at the door, and Ron opened it to reveal Luna, Neville, and Padma Patil, her next door neighbor.

“We, er, wanted to wait with you. If you wanted, that is. Dean wanted to come, but I told him it was probably a bad idea, y’know, because he’s, er—well…” Neville scratched the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed, and Hermione smiled.

“Thank you. I would love the company.”

Neville had brought candied butterflies that fluttered around the room before landing on their tongues, dissolving in flashes of glitter and color. For a moment, with her friends settled comfortable around her, Hermione felt like everything might be okay. Surely Charlie would win the bet—she had corresponded with him via owl multiple times in the past few days; he didn’t seem terrible, despite being several years her senior. In fact, she rather liked him, and from what she remembered of him, he was handsome and brave. He was clearly more reserved and polite than Ron, and his sense of humor was more subtle and intellectual. Just today, when she’d owled him in a panic admitting that she wouldn’t be able to break the spell, and he’d promised he’d bet on her. Ten thousand galleons—that was almost sixty thousand pounds. It was all of his savings, but he’d said it would be worth it if she didn’t have to marry the likes of Blaise Zabini. She’d promised him she’d accept his offer, and Ron had assured her that Charlie was a nice bloke who would make a good husband, although he would come home smelling like singed hair from his work with dragons. 

Hermione found herself thinking that marrying Charlie Weasley wouldn’t be all that bad. She had always felt like the Weasleys were family—now it would just be official. She and Ginny would be sisters.

At seven minutes past midnight, an arrogant-looking barn owl knocked its beak noisily against her windowsill. McGonagall had given her express permission to receive owls from the Ministry every Sunday night as opposed to waiting for mail in the Great Hall, and she felt relief flood her as she eyed the bird. At least now she could get this over with. She might be less than pleased, but she was sure that Molly would be happy enough for both of them.

The room had fallen silent, still effused with those bright butterfly candies, and Hermione’s friends watched as she extricated herself from Ginny’s arms and opened the window for the owl. She pulled a treat from her nightstand and handed it to the bird as she gently tugged the scroll from its leg.

This was it.

She would owl Charlie and thank him again as soon as she opened it—she would give him back his money, of course, when they married. She doubted anyone else would have bid as high—ten thousand was a hefty sum, but he’d assured her it was better safe than sorry. 

She exhaled and untied the ribbon, her heart thundering in her ears. A letter from Kingsley covered the bid results, but she threw it aside impatiently, letting it flutter noiselessly to the floor.

_Mr. Draco Malfoy, **G** 45,000_

The breath left Hermione’s lungs, and she made a sound like a dying fish—a desperate, clawing thing. _Forty-five thousand galleons._ That was more than Harry had in his vault. And _Malfoy?_ Why would he want to marry her. Hands shaking, she forced herself to read the rest of the paper, her stomach churning anxiously. She didn’t recognize the people in second and third, the second place falling twenty thousand behind Malfoy, but the next four were painfully familiar.

_Mr. Pius Thicknesse, **G** 17,000_

_Mr. Blaise Zabini, **G** 15,000_

_Ms. Daphne Greengrass, **G** 12,000_

_Mr. Theodore Nott Sr, **G** 11,500_

Only in eighth place did she see Charlie’s name. The parchment continued for another several feet, holding what appeared to be over a hundred names, but Hermione didn’t bother to read past Charlie’s name. She dropped the scroll and ran.


	5. She is a public deity,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Phew. I really cannot express how sorry I am about the hiatus (and about not warning y'all), but if you've stuck with the story, here's a very short chapter (read: apology) to essentially say "hey, I'm not dead."
> 
> Hey! I'm not dead (just working two jobs and finishing up my first year of college (which, to be honest, is death-adjacent)). Anyway, I probably won't update with any sort of weekly consistency (I'm gonna try for every two weeks?) but I'll definitely let you guys know if I'll be gone for longer than a month. 
> 
> As always, comments are welcome. Please give me plot ideas & I will credit you and, I dunno, give you my bath water. I love love love you all (but, on second thought, not enough to give you my bath water. Sorry). <3

After a fitful few hours of sleep, Hermione didn’t go down to breakfast the next morning. In fact, despite her usual insistence that breakfast was the most important meal of the day, she managed nothing but a glass of orange juice. She felt like she was going to throw up. Well, not exactly. She felt as if she was going to violently expel her internal organs and spontaneously combust. Or rather, she wished she could. She glanced at her watch at 9:25, stomach rebelling in hunger and nervousness, and gathered up her bags, letting her hair bounce freely around her face to give her some semblance of privacy. She slipped into Advanced Herbology with thirty seconds to spare, as opposed to her usual seven minutes early, to avoid causing a commotion, and seated herself firmly between Neville and Dean, blocking out the rest of the students and focusing on harvesting microscopic Fairythistle seed pods with magically operated tweezers. She managed not to speak a word for the entire class period, only nodding when Dean apologized profusely for “the state of things,” unable to meet his eyes. She knew it wasn’t his fault, but as an Alpha he benefited from the system that forced her into a position of subservience—a fact that left a bitter taste in her mouth.

She took lunch alone in her room, having kicked Harry and Ron back to Hogsmeade as a result of their endearing but infuriating mothering, absently chewing on her turkey and cheese sandwich. She had double Potions next—with the Slytherins. With Malfoy.

For the first time in her seven-year academic career, Hermione Granger seriously considered skipping a class—but, of course, she didn’t.

Later, she thought that if she were in possession of a time turner, she would break all time travel laws and force herself to skip the class.

:::

 

When she walked into the classroom, the room fell silent, but she didn’t pay it any attention. She was used to it by now. What she was not used to, however, was Draco Malfoy settling languidly into the seat beside hers, looking for all the world like he belonged. His tie hung slightly looser than usual around his neck, and she had half a mind to give him a dress code warning before she remembered that he was Head Boy. It looked utterly salacious and completely improper and—

“What are you doing, Malfoy?” she hissed quietly, not needing to look around the room to know that everyone was staring.

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow, as if surprised at her virtriole, and drawled, “I wasn’t aware it was a crime want to spend time with my future wife.”

The room was dead silent, and for a moment Hermione spluttered helplessly, so indignant that she couldn’t form words enough to reprimand the prat. God—he was so entitled and ridiculous and absolutely incorrigible—“Don’t be facetious,” Hermione spat, “I know you’ve no more desire to marry me than I do you, and I won’t stand for your petty bullying.”

“What would it take to convince you I’m serious? Is forty-five thousand galleons not enough?” Malfoy mocked, features arranged in a Bond-villain Vogue-spread approximation of sympathy.

She scoffed. “I shouldn’t have been surprised that you wasted that much money on some puerile scheme to humiliate me, and yet you never fail to fall short of any meager expectations of human decency.”

Malfoy smiled diplomatically, jaw tightening. “It’s what I do best, is it not?” he permitted, crossing one leg casually over the other. “Far be it from me not to avail my talents.”

“Apparently,” Hermione returned flippantly, “Now if you’ll return to your desk, class is about to start.”

Irritatingly, Malfoy made no move to sit in his usual seat and instead began unpacking his books from his bag, settling into his chair smugly and shifting so the hem of his robe brushed against Hermione’s. He leaned over to whisper in her ear—too close, seeing as she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck, so she shifted away slightly. Malfoy only chuckled under his breath. “Clearly, despite Blaise’s best efforts, you are still unaware of the esteem with which the wizarding world holds omegas, so allow me to enlighten you: whichever family you join will become the most powerful wizarding family in Europe, and the Malfoys, recent oversights aside, have, and will always be, the puppet masters of the world.”

She turned to look at Malfoy accusingly. The intensity of his gaze sent shivers down Hermione’s spine, but she forced herself to shrug disbelievingly. “Right. You’re saying that you actually _want_ to marry me because of the alleged social capital that I, Mudblood swot extraordinaire, would bring to you, Draco- _Sanctimonious-Vincet-Semper_ -Malfoy.”

Malfoy nodded slowly, sitting back in his seat with a casual grace that told Hermione he was distinctly unimpressed she knew his family motto. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Believe it or not, designation precedes blood, and your status now falls above mine or any other Pureblood’s.” Retaining his neutral tone and watching her calculatingly through narrowed eyes, he added, “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted, Granger? To be good enough?”

Hermione blew a sharp breath out of her mouth. That git. That _git_. “I don’t—that’s not—” she shook her head, clenching her hands into fists below the desk. God, Hermione needed to see Hogwarts’ new therapist, because if Draco Malfoy could read her deepest insecurities so blatantly, then she was clearly doing something very, very wrong. 

“I’ve not got time for your games, Malfoy,” she hissed, finally, “This may be amusing to you, but it’s my life you’re toying with.”

Professor Slughorn breezed into the room, papers hovering beside his stout form, but Hermione paid him no attention, her gaze wholly focused on the unfairly handsome nuisance that occupied the seat beside her. 

Malfoy sent her an unreadable look, lashes fluttering dangerously. “I’m not playing, Granger. While politics may certainly have motivated my initial bid, I’m going to _win_ for overtly selfish reasons ...” He allowed his sentence to trail off, raking his eyes over Hermione in a way that spelled out very clearly what he wanted from her, and Hermione pressed her lips together angrily.

“Power,” she finished for him, “and”—she faltered only briefly, more at the implication of sex with _Malfoy_ than the word itself—“sex.”

“—which are one and the same,” Malfoy offered with the confidence of a man who loved power but considered _em_ powerment unconscionable.

“If you wanted to fuck me Malfoy, you could have asked nicely instead of, oh, I don’t know, bullying and threatening me for years,” she spat, only partially shocked at her own impropriety. Being a war heroine meant constantly being watched for the tiniest morsel of gossip that could be turned into a scandal, and Hermione had had quite enough of propriety.

It seemed Malfoy had, too, for he laughed, a genuine, startled huff, and eyed her with surprise. She could practically see the gears turning in his head, reevaluating and refiling—he looked like he did when he was struggling with a particularly difficult Arithmancy problem, one eye slightly more squinted than the other. “If I had asked nicely, would you have fucked me?” he countered, after a beat.

“No,” she answered immediately, and Malfoy lifted an eyebrow in a silent challenge that clearly meant _case in point._

There were a few moments of silence between them in which Hermione shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the skin of her wrist with a thumb and Malfoy watched her with something akin to fascination. He blinked, then focused his eyes back on her face, leaning close enough that she could see the shadow of each of his eyelashes falling diagonally across the top section of his cheeks.

“I’m no saint, Granger,” Malfoy allowed, his voice rough and embittered (staring in abject awe at the smooth swoop of his cupid’s bow, she thought maybe he could be), “but I’m certainly not the worst of your options.” ( _Objectively true,_ she thought, considering Theo Nott’s dad, and also Malfoy’s jawline.) “And at least I’m honest about my motives.” (Hmm. That certainly seemed like a good cover for dishonesty.)

Silently: why did Malfoy have to be so goddamn attractive? Out loud (or rather, whispered furiously): “If you think I will ever even _consider_ marrying or bonding to you Malfoy, your delusions—as usual—precede you.”

Malfoy shrugged carelessly. “We’ll see.”


End file.
